The Violin
by J0
Summary: STORY COMPLETE! Steve plans an extra special Christmas present for Mark, but misunderstandings and a debilitating injury threaten to separate him from those he loves at the holidays. THANKS FOR THE REVIEWS!
1. A Haunting Melody

**Disclaimer:  **This story is a work of fan fiction written for pleasure and not for profit.  The DM characters were borrowed for the purposes of the story, the rest are the work of my imagination.  Thanks to Gayle, group manager of SWP, for providing the impetus to write this story, and to my friend (she knows who she is) for allowing me to use her three children and her son's cat as important characters.

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**The Violin**

**_A DM Christmas story._**

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**Dedicated to my Uncle Herb, who suffered the same tragedy and never recovered.**

**Chapter One:  A Haunting Melody **

**(November 1st)**

"Hey, Dad, how about this old violin?"  Steve asked, opening the case to reveal a blue velveteen interior.  "It should bring at least a couple hundred dollars, don't you think?"

"Oh, no, no, no.  I'm not parting with that, Son," Mark said as he took the open case from his son and gently fingered the instrument.  He plucked at one of the strings, and cringed when it made an unpleasant twanging sound.  He shook his head sadly, knowing the fine old violin was decaying from some forty years of neglect, but he just couldn't bear to part with it.

It was November 1, and Steve and Mark Sloan were doing their annual housecleaning.  They had started the tradition about ten years ago when their friend Sister Michael had produced a video to 'recruit' young Catholic women to the convent way of life.  The cameraman, a young thug Sister Michael had rehabilitated, had been murdered to prevent him from disclosing an incriminating piece of evidence he had hidden in the convent.  After the murderer had been caught and the evidence discovered, Mark and Steve had begun to consider how they might help their friend preserve her convent.  Since neither of them felt the necessary vocation for taking the vows of poverty and chastity required, they were both delighted to help when she came to them several months later for help in organizing an auction and rummage sale instead.

Steve, who had been rooting through the storage room searching for more items to donate to the sale, missed his father's pained look as he closed the violin case and put it back on the shelf that had been its home since the Sloan family had moved to the beach house.

"Oh, come on, Dad!  It will buy a dozen turkeys for Thanksgiving dinner at the shelter."

"I said no!"

Steve was taken aback by his father's tone, one he had not heard since he was an unmanageable teenager, and turned to look at him, thinking he may have misheard.  He was surprised to see his father's normally sky blue eyes dark with anger and glittering with . . . tears?  Profoundly puzzled, but knowing better than to inquire now, he just changed the subject.

"I think I might donate my punching bag and boxing gloves.  I haven't used them since I started working with the kids at Kelley's Gym, and maybe my drums, too, since I never practiced as a kid.  I was going to give the drums to Jesse, because I know how he likes to play yours, but there just isn't room for them in his little apartment."

Steve grinned, but it collapsed to a troubled frown as, to his astonishment, his father turned and walked out of the storage room without a word.  Sighing, and suspecting they were already finished for the day, Steve followed several yards behind as his dad walked round the house and out on to the beach.  He stopped in the yard and watched as Mark headed off to his thinking spot among the dunes, his body language screaming _leave me alone_ even at this distance.  More intrigued than ever, Steve returned to the house.

Back in the storeroom, Steve, looked around a bit, and finding no place to sit, he set a couple of trunks on end.  Sitting on one trunk and using the other as a makeshift table, he opened the case, took the violin out, and for a moment just admired the instrument.  The front was a fine-grained reddish wood, smoothly finished, and the back was a narrowly banded, gold and reddish, tiger-striped lighter wood.  The neck of the instrument was black, the tuning pegs matched the front, and the tiger stripes were repeated in the scroll.  Steve didn't know much about musical instruments, but even he could tell this one was a beauty.

It was also a mystery.  In all his life, Steve had only known one person who played the violin, yet this one had floated around with his family for as long as he could remember.  Never having been musically inclined, he had always just ignored it, and the only time he had ever shown any interest in it had been as a teenager one day when he was fooling around with his buddies.

Steve, Ben Meyer, and Nick Marino were looking for old clothes to wear to the school Halloween costume party.  They hadn't decided yet who or what they were going to be, but Steve, knowing his parents' propensity to keep everything that came into the house, was sure they would find some inspiration as they went through the stuff that had been put into storage in the spare bedroom.

Ben had found and tried on an old double-breasted, pinstriped suit, a dark gray fedora with a wide black band, and black and white wingtips, and suddenly, Steve had an idea.  He got down the old violin case and handed it to Ben, then turned him to look in the full-length mirror on the back of the door.  

"What do you see?" he asked.

Ben studied himself for a moment, then grinned.  "Hey, I'm a hit man!"

"Uh-huh," Steve agreed, "and if you get Becca to wear that tight dress she had for homecoming last year and one of those . . . feathery things . . . "

"A boa," Nick supplied, and when both Steve and Ben looked at him questioningly, he shrugged and said, "My sister's eight years old and she likes to play dress up.  Sometimes I get asked to baby sit."

"Ok, whatever," Steve agreed, too excited by his ideas to stop and tease his friend.  "Nick and I can wear the suits we usually wear for church, and get a couple hats at a costume shop, and . . . "

"We can be Bugsy Siegel, Meyer Lansky, and Lucky Luciano!"  Ben finished for him.

"Yeah," Steve grinned, "something like that."

Satisfied that they had their costumes settled for the dance, Ben decided it was time to pick on Nick.  Making a thoughtful face, he asked, "Nick, didn't you used to play the violin?"

"What?  Who?  Me?  NO!"

Ben grinned, knowing his friend was lying, and winked at Steve.  "Yes you did.  I'm sure of it."

"Yeah," Steve agreed, "remember when we used to call you Florian, Nicky?  After that kid on the talent show episode of the Dick Van Dyke Show?"

Ben opened the case and said, "Come on, Nicky, play us a tune."

"Oh, no.  No way, guys.  You don't want to hear it.  Trust me.  The worst sound in the world is an old violin being played badly.  I ought to know, I did it for six years until my mother finally accepted the idea that I didn't want to learn to play it well."  Nick tried to back away and bumped into Steve, who had moved to stand behind him, blocking his retreat.

"Nicky, Nicky, Nicky," Steve said in the tone of a disappointed parent.  "You can let us laugh at you now, or let everyone in school laugh at you when we tell them how you just love to play dress up with your kid sister."

Nick's eyes opened wide.  "I didn't say that!" he protested.

"Maybe not, but we will," Ben promised.

Nick sighed, knowing he was beat, and knowing he deserved it.  He, Steve, and Ben were good friends, but they were constantly playing jokes on one another, and it was about his turn again.  He took the bow out of the case first and tightened it, then he gingerly picked up the violin.  Looking at his friends, he said, "I think I remember 'Mary Had a Little Lamb'."

His friends giggled evilly and Ben said, "That will do, for a start."

The first tortured cat shrieking notes had barely left the strings when Steve's dad appeared in the doorway yelling, "What in the hell are you boys doing?"

Startled out of his skin, Nick nearly dropped both violin and bow.  "S-s-sorry, Dr. Sloan, we were just goofing around.  I-I didn't mean any harm."

"Get out!"  Mark roared.

Nick handed over the bow and violin and hightailed it out of there, Ben close on his heels, feeling ashamed to leave Steve to face his furious father on his own, but too embarrassed to go back and share his fate.

Steve and his father had argued then, over Steve's lack of respect for other people's property and Mark's outrageous behavior in front of Steve's friends.  After that, they hadn't spoken for days, and for some reason, Mark had even been snappish with his wife for a while after the incident.  In the end, the boys had borrowed a violin case from the band director and a boa from Nick's little sister, and the three of them and Becca had split the first prize from the costume party, dinner for four at a local burger joint.

Steve's frown deepened as he returned to the present.  As a teenager, he'd often been at odds with his father.  At the time, his dad had just seemed to be yelling at him again, but now he wasn't so sure.  Steve knew as a kid he had been a good one for blaming his problems on his father's 'too strict' rules, but now in hindsight, Mark really had overreacted that day.

Wondering exactly what the violin meant to his father, Steve gently set it aside, and half expecting Mark to come roaring in again as he had that day with Ben and Nick, he began to search through the case for some sign of its significance.  

Besides the bow, he found a bit of rosin and a soft cotton flannel inside the case, but nothing to indicate that it had any connection to his father.  Then he reached into the pocket in the lining of the top of the case, and what he found astounded him.

There were a dozen pictures of his mother, looking younger than he'd ever seen her.  Though the snapshots were black and white, he could remember the colors.  Her dark golden blonde hair was piled high on her head, a few wispy curls trailing down against her porcelain skin and long elegant neck.  She wore a black velvet dress with a deep v-neck and three-quarter length sleeves.  It fit snugly down to her waist and then flared out into a full, sweeping skirt.  A cameo pendant on a ribbon choker hung round her neck, and a delicate gold bracelet dangled from her wrist.

And she was playing the violin.

One shot particularly captivated Steve.  His mom was leaning forward slightly, a blissful smile on her face, her eyes half closed, lost in the music she was making.  Steve remembered how green her eyes had been.  Suddenly missing her, he closed his eyes and swallowed hard.  The feeling was always the same, homesickness, lovesickness, knowing the person you most wanted to see would never, ever be there again.

He took a deep breath to steady himself, and finally understood his father's attachment to the old violin.

"She was a fine musician, your mother."

Steve jumped and the pictures scattered.  Though soft and low-pitched, and full of pride, Mark's voice had startled him.  As Steve scrambled to gather the photos, Mark moved into the storage room and took over Steve's seat on the end of the trunk.  He picked up the violin and the flannel that was in the case and began gently polishing it.  The varnish had clouded slightly over the years, but it was only a minor surface defect, and his gentle ministrations were already giving the instrument the appearance of new life.

Steve slipped the pictures back into the pocket in the top of the case, and, having lost his seat, he closed the case and, holding it in his lap, sat on the other trunk, facing his father.

Mark had his glasses on now, and was studying the instrument carefully.  Steve had the uncomfortable sense that his father thought he had somehow damaged it.

"The bridge is a little warped," Mark muttered.  "It should be replaced, and I'm afraid it's been too dry for too long.  The glue might have cracked."

"I remember Mom playing the piano," Steve said, "but I didn't know she ever played that."  He gestured toward the violin.

Mark peered at him over his glasses.  "You weren't supposed to," he said.  "She was very, very good."

"Dad?"  Far from getting him the answers he had been seeking, Steve's little investigation had so far only yielded more questions, and this conversation with his father was proving even more confounding.

"Let's put it away, Son," Mark said softly.

Steve opened the case, and his father gently, lovingly, placed the instrument inside.  Then he took the case from his son, latched it closed, and carefully put it back on the shelf.

"Come, on, I'll help you load the drums into your truck."

They worked on cleaning out the storeroom the rest of the afternoon, exchanging the fewest words possible, Steve itching to ask more about the violin and knowing he shouldn't, Mark aching to share his memories of Catherine, and knowing he couldn't, at least not yet.  By three o'clock, Steve's truck was full of odds and ends for Sister Michael's rummage sale, and the storage room, though still overfull, was as empty as he had ever seen it.  They dropped their donations off at the convent and, since neither of them felt like cooking, they stopped at BBQ Bob's for some take out.  By five, they were sitting in comfortable silence on the deck, watching the sun sink below the Pacific horizon.

Mark sighed deeply and settled further into his chair, snuggling into the blanket he had brought out with him.  It might be Southern California, but it was still November, and there was a chill in the air.

"Dad?"  Steve said when he heard his father sigh.  He could feel a serious talk coming on, and he hoped he would be getting his answers about the violin tonight.

"Sometimes, I can almost see her, right there," Mark pointed to a spot on the beach, "building sandcastles with you and your sister.  I'd come out on the deck and yell, 'Daddy's home!'  You and Carol would race to be the first to get my suit all wet and sandy, and your mother always came running just a step behind.  You all nearly knocked me down every time, and I knew I was as happy as a man could be."

"I remember that," Steve said smiling, "and you always told us how happy we made you."  He turned his head to look at his dad and was shocked to find Mark fighting tears.  His chin was trembling, and his eyes were closed.  Steve saw his Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallowed hard several times.  Then he took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"Your mother started playing the violin when she was six years old.  By the time I met her, she was an accomplished concert violinist with the LA Philharmonic, on the verge of breaking out and making a name for herself.  A mutual friend introduced us at a reception after a concert."  Mark decided to omit the fact that the mutual friend had been the late Detective Harry Trumble, Catherine's fiancé at the time.

"Before long we were engaged, and, well, you know the rest."

Steve agreed, though he was sure he didn't 'know the rest'.  Somehow, he knew his father didn't want to share the details with him.  It was like listening to a haunting melody on the radio while driving in the mountains, only catching bits and pieces of the tune as the signal kept fading out.

"All her life, your mother only wanted two things, Steve, to be a concertmaster with a distinguished orchestra, and to have a family.  It was like twin fevers possessed her, Son.  She would rehearse with the Philharmonic, then come home, and practice for hours every day.  When I got home, she would put the violin away and turn into, I don't know, June Cleaver and Betty Crocker all in one, I guess."

Steve smiled.  "Mom never did anything halfway."  To his relief, his father finally smiled back.

"No, she didn't."  He reached over to gently ruffle his son's hair and said, "Seems to run in the family."

Steve grinned openly and added, "On both sides."

Mark nodded and looked back at the sea.  

"She had just found out she was pregnant when they finally offered her the job.  The old concertmaster was retiring, and she was far and away the most capable of the remaining violinists.  It was a painful decision for her, Son, for us, really, but once she made it she never looked back, and the only time I ever asked her, she swore she never regretted it."

"What do you mean, a painful decision?"

Mark huddled deeper in his blanket, shivering despite the warmth it offered.  "A concertmaster is responsible for rehearsing the entire orchestra and leading them in concert.  She actually puts in more time than the conductor in some cases, and on the night of a performance, she tunes the orchestra before the conductor takes the stage.  If the orchestra travels, which the Phil did on occasion at that time, your mother would have had to go with them.

"I knew how much she wanted the job.  She'd been working for it all her life, and she'd only known me a couple of years at that point.  As long as I had known her, it had been like a need, a craving, wearing away at her.  And now she had the opportunity, but she was pregnant."

Steve remained quiet, waiting for what his dad would say next, and what he heard stunned him.

"I mentioned that, well, every week one or two women would have a therapeutic D&C at the hospital."

"D & C?"

"Dilation and curettage, Son."

Hoping he had misunderstood, Steve tried to clarify, "Isn't that where they go inside a woman's body and scrape out tumors or something like that?"

Mark nodded.  "Before Roe vs. Wade, it was used . . . for other things, too."

A heavy silence descended between them.  Steve wanted to say something to make his dad understand that whatever had happened, he was ok with it, but he wasn't at all sure that was the case.  Finally, Mark spoke again.

"I will never forget what she did then."  He spoke slowly and paused between his sentences, unwilling to let the words out.  "She covered her belly with both hands, like she was trying to protect it . . . from me.  She wasn't even showing yet, but we knew it . . . we knew you . . . were there.  'I will not have an abortion,' she told me, 'I want a family.'  She wouldn't let me touch her for weeks after that.  Even . . . in bed . . . she drew away from me."

Steve felt his heart sink to his ankles.  He had to look away when his father turned to him.

"I suppose I deserved it," Mark conceded.  "It was a stupid thing to say.  I never meant she should get rid of . . . you, Son.  I just wanted her to know that I would support her whatever she decided."

"Even if she had elected to have the surgery?"  Steve knew it was a morbid question, but he had to ask.  Finally looking at his father, he saw Mark's face was wet with tears, and instantly regretted his need to know, but before he could tell his dad that he didn't have to answer, Mark had spoken.

"I don't know, Son, but I thank God I didn't have to find out."

Steve reached out and placed his hand over his father's.  Giving a gentle squeeze, he said, "Don't worry about it, Dad.  You'd have done the right thing, whatever it was."

This time the silence was a little lighter, and father and son both turned to look at the ocean.

"She turned down the contract, but accepted the job as an interim position until they found a replacement for the retiring concertmaster.  It took them a while to find one, because the conductor didn't want your mother to quit.  

"She was only off two weeks when you were born.  I tried to get her to stay home longer, but she insisted she was fine and you were a good baby.  When she went back to the Phil, she took you with her.  I went by a couple of times just to ease my conscience, but I didn't need to.  She had this big wicker basket she'd put you down in, and you'd lay there at her feet cooing and giggling and playing with your toes, and you'd watch her play the whole time.  Your eyes never left her.  Some of the other orchestra members thought you would be another great musician when you grew up because you were so captivated by watching your mother play.  When you got fussy, the whole orchestra would play Brahms' Lullaby and you'd go right off to sleep.  

"Finally, in December she announced that she would not be back after New Year's.  Her friends tried to get her to stay, told her they loved having you around and that an education in classical music would be good for you, but she figured a little boy needed a mother at home, not a musician who raised him in the concert hall.  She also realized that soon enough you would be an active toddler no longer content with laying in a laundry basket watching his mother make music."

Mark was smiling again now; Steve could hear it, and the pride, in his father's voice.  "Her last public performance was Christmas Eve.  She had a seven-minute solo, a tremendously intricate piece that had been specially commissioned for the Phil's thirty-fifth anniversary.  She got a standing ovation.  Then we picked you up from the sitter and brought you home."

Steve heard his dad sigh contentedly with the happy memories.  "It was your first Christmas, and you must have sensed the excitement in the air, because you just wouldn't settle for the night.  Your mother had me sit in the rocker with you in my arms, and she gave us a private concert.  She played Brahms' Lullaby and the melody of  Pachelbel's Cannon in D, and by the time she ended with Silent Night, you and I were both asleep."

Again, silence descended, then, bereft, Mark spoke once more, "She woke me up after she put you in the crib, and she never touched her violin again."

Now Steve understood more than he had wanted to, and though he knew he'd had no control over his mother's decision, he couldn't help but feel guilty.

"She didn't have to give up her music, did she, Dad?  She could have stayed with the orchestra."

Mark shook his head.  "No, Son, you said it yourself, your mother never did anything halfway.  When you got older, it would have gotten more and more difficult to take you along and keep you entertained.  She would have had to hire someone to watch you while she was with the Phil.  When she was with the orchestra, she would have felt she was neglecting you and Carol, and when she was with the two of you, she would have felt she was neglecting her music."

"But, Dad, women hold all kinds of jobs and still have families, she could . . . "

"Maybe they do now," Mark cut him off, "but forty years ago, the world was different.  You know that, and you know being a devoted wife and mother and taking advantage of those opportunities that did exist were often mutually exclusive paths."

"She could have played for us, or in the church."

"No, she couldn't.  By the time of that last concert, she'd spent over twenty years working to get where she was.  Her music was a huge part of who she was.  She was at the peak of her career, Steve," Mark explained, "and there was no way she could have switched to playing Sunday mass and family room recitals.  It would have taken all the joy out of her music.  She had to quit completely or keep going full ahead.  I think she always hoped you or your sister would express an interest in it one day, but for her there was no middle ground."

"So, she just gave it up," Steve was almost angry with his mother for quitting because of him, and Mark must have heard it in his tone.

"Son, could you leave homicide right now and be a night watchman at the mall?"

Suddenly, he felt unspeakably sad for his mother.  "It's unfair, Dad," he said bitterly.  "She shouldn't have had to quit what she loved."

"I know, Steve, but that's the way the world was back then.  Remember the day I caught you and your friends playing around with the violin?"

"Oh, yeah.  I was thinking about that just today."

"For a while after that, I was angry at her for quitting, for robbing you and your sister of the opportunity to know how gifted she was.  I know I was difficult to live with for a few days.  After about a week, she finally cornered me, and made me tell her what was on my mind.  I asked her if she ever regretted her decision."

When his father didn't continue, Steve had to ask, "What did she say, Dad?"

"She said she had made her decision months before that last concert.  She had made it the day they offered the job, and again, when you were born, and when you grabbed her finger for the first time, when you first smiled at her, when you took your first steps, when your sister was born, and every day the two of you were growing up."  Mark smiled at his son, then, a gentle smile that lit up his eyes.  "She told me she made the same decision every time, Son, and she never once regretted it."

Steve smiled back, and breathed a little easier then, glad to know his mother had been happy devoting herself to her family and content despite the sacrifice she had made.


	2. Played for a Fool

**Chapter Two:  Played for a Fool**

**(November 4th)**

"I'll give you forty-two hundred for it," the withered old man said placing the violin gently back in the case.

"Excuse me?"  Steve said, shocked.

The elderly man picked up the violin again and examined it carefully.  "The bridge is warped and has to be replaced, it needs new strings, the varnish has clouded a little, and it's dried out.  I can restore the proper humidity, but only time will tell if that will keep the glue from cracking."

"Did you say forty-two hundred?  Dollars?"

The man ran a hand through his thinning hair, making the few wispy strands stand on end, looked at Steve through narrowed eyes and said, "Ok, I can go forty-five hundred."

"Are you serious?"

"Ok, ok, five grand, but that's my final offer.  I am a businessman, not a collector, it does need some work, and I gotta keep some margin of profit.  Any higher, and I risk losing money."

"It's not for sale," Steve said.

"Look, mister, I'm not kidding.  I can sell it for maybe fifty-five hundred, six thousand after repairs, five thousand is as high as I can go."

Steve smiled, then.  "No, you don't understand.  It's not mine to sell, and I know the owner will never part with it.  I was just surprised that it's worth so much.  I want it restored, as a surprise for the owner."

The man closed the case then, and pushed it back to Steve, but left his gnarled hands resting on top of it.  "Don't waste your money."

"What?  You just said it needed some work, and you still offered me five thousand dollars!  How can repairing it be a waste of money?"

The man took Steve's hands in his and turned them over.  The grip was firm, the touch warm and dry, the fingers roughened with years of work.  "No calluses," was all he said.

"So?"

"So, you don't play, and the owner obviously doesn't either.  There ought to be a law . . . "  He trailed off for a minute, then explained, "If someone doesn't play it, there's no point in repairing it.  Let it die peacefully of neglect, rather than trying to revive it only to let it decline again."

Steve's expression must have betrayed his doubts, because the man continued his explanation.  

"Look, I told you the truth on the price, why would I lie about this?  A fine violin in good condition becomes a living thing.  It needs exercise to stay healthy.  It won't take much to rehabilitate this one, but if someone doesn't make the effort to keep it healthy, there's no point."

He turned to a bulletin board behind the counter and took a magazine article off it.  The article had been laminated, and was dated 1978.  

"The Smithsonian and the Library of Congress even hire people to play the instruments in their collections.  It's a vital part of proper maintenance."

As he scanned the article, Steve gave it some thought.  Three days ago, after he'd found out the story behind the violin, he'd started calling around, looking for someone who could restore it to its former glory.  Three different sources, one of them a stolen art and antiques fence, and the other two cops who had spent years recovering stolen art, had all spoken highly of this acerbic man, Tomas Wilson Downing.  If Steve was going to have this work done, he wanted to hire the best to do it.

"Ok, listen," Steve said, trying to bargain with Mr. Downing. "I'll buy the owner lessons for Christmas, too.  Then he can play it."

Downing shook his head.  "Not good enough.  This isn't like a kid who brings home a puppy and doesn't follow through on his promise to feed it and water it and love it and clean up after it.  Anyone can care for a dog and use a pooper scooper.  You need training to play a violin."

"Mr. Downing," Steve pleaded.  "This is really important to me.  I just recently found out my mother was a concertmaster with the LA Philharmonic years ago.  She quit, just after I was born, and she never played again.  It would mean a lot to my dad to have this violin restored, and I am sure he will find someone to play it once I tell him how necessary it is.  Please, can you help me out?"

Steve could see the wheels turning in Downing's head.  "Your mother was concertmaster at the Phil before you were born?"

"Yes, Sir, but only for a while.  She quit before I was a year old to be a full-time wife and mother."

"You're what?  In your forties?"

Steve just nodded.

To Steve's relief, Mr. Downing pulled the violin back across the counter.  "Tell you what," he said, "LA Valley Community College is offering a six week introductory course.  It meets four evenings a week, from eight to nine forty-five.  It starts tonight and ends the Friday before Christmas.  I'll fix the violin for you.  When you convince me you can play, I'll give it back."

"Look, Mr. Downing, I have a full time job that often calls me out nights . . . "

"I know you want the best for this splendid instrument," Downing interrupted, "and I am the best.  As you can see," he continued, glancing around his shop which was an obviously thriving enterprise, "I don't need your business as much as you need my skill.  Learn to play, and I'll do the work, or," he said as he slid the violin back to Steve one more time, "you can get someone to do a second rate job and hope he doesn't ruin it for you."

"No, Sir," Steve said petulantly, disconcerted that the man found him so transparent, "you do the restoration.  I'll . . . work out something that will satisfy you."

Downing nodded.  "Good enough."  He gave Steve a claim receipt to fill out and said, "But you won't get it back without someone learning to play it.  I won't let you neglect this marvelous piece anymore."

"Don't worry," Steve grumbled, "I'll manage something."  He shoved the claim receipt across the counter and Downing slid another paper back to him.

"Sign this, too," he commanded.

"What is it?"

"A rental agreement.  One dollar pays the first month's rent.  It's a holiday special.  You'll need something to practice on until you learn to play properly."

After reading the document, Steve, certain he was being played for a fool, reluctantly signed it and handed it back to Mr. Downing.

"Thank you, Mr. . . . Sloan," he said, reading the signature and grinning.  "That will be five dollars."

Steve, who had been looking in his wallet for a one, did a double take and said, "You said first month's rent was a dollar."

"It is," the old man replied, smiling beatifically, "but there is no way I am letting an instrument leave my shop uninsured.  The insurance is four dollars a month, and the insurance company doesn't run any holiday specials."

Grumbling like the Grinch who Stole Christmas, Steve pulled out a five and grudgingly gave it to Downing.

"I noticed you're a leftie," Downing said cheerfully.

"Yeah."

"You do everything left-handed?"

"Pretty much," Steve rumbled back at him.

"Come here, then," Downing said.

Steve followed the old man over to a wall where several violins hung off by themselves.

"This one is stringed for a leftie," Downing said, taking one down and handing it to Steve.  The wood was all honey-colored, the neck black, and there were small colorful dots on the neck to mark the various finger positions.  It was clearly a mass-produced instrument, designed for a beginner, and Steve could see the difference in quality between it and his mother's violin.  Still, it felt unnervingly fragile when he held it.  

"You have big hands," Mr. Downing said, "strong hands.  It will not be easy to learn the finesse and agility you will need to play the violin, but if you keep practicing, you will master it."


	3. Music Lessons

**Chapter Three:  Music Lessons **

**(November 4th)**

Steve looked nervously around the classroom still unable to believe he was here.  His original plan had been to get Amanda or Jesse to take these classes, or even CJ or Dion, but the more he thought about his explanation for wanting one of them to learn to play the violin, the more ridiculous it sounded.  He was a cop, for crying out loud!  There was no need for him to take music lessons.  If Mr. Downing refused to give back his mother's violin just because Steve hadn't found anyone who could play, he could simply arrest the man and take it back.

So why was he here?  The only explanation he could imagine was that the way Mr. Downing had talked about the violin, like it was slowly dying of neglect and lack of love, had struck a chord within him.  He smiled at his accidental pun.  _Struck a chord.  _

Steve glanced around again.  While he'd been thinking, two more students had walked in.  Now they were seven, and an eclectic bunch at that.  He was relieved to realize he was not the oldest in the room.  At the end of the row to his right sat an older woman.  Judging from her age and professional dress, Steve thought there might be a possibility that she was about to retire or had just recently done so and was looking for a new hobby.  

Next to her, was a nervous-looking Hispanic man, in his early thirties, wearing metallic, round-rimmed spectacles, a bow tie, and a sweater vest.  He probably thought that developing some musical skill might make him more appealing to women.  For some reason, Steve got the strong impression he was a mama's boy, and he couldn't help but think women would find the guy more appealing if he'd just lose the bow tie and change into a sweatshirt and jeans.

Between Steve and the bow tie guy was a girl, probably still in high school, turned out in what he thought the kids called gothic style.  He had to wonder if his parents had thought he was as strange when he was a teenager as some of the adolescents today seemed to him.  The girl's straggly blonde hair hung around her face like a curtain, warning off those who might start a conversation uninvited.  She was dressed all in black, with a long spaghetti strap dress and a lacy cardigan over it and soft black suede boots.  As she tossed her head, and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, Steve saw that her skin was powder white and she wore black lipstick and eye makeup.  John Lennon glasses with shiny silver frames and dark lenses perched at the end of her nose.  Her nails were painted black, of course.  If she hadn't looked so odd, she would have been a stunning young lady.

When she turned her head and caught Steve staring, he tried to look away, but she said, "Oh, go on and look.  I know you think I'm weird."

Steve looked back at her, blushing slightly, and when she flashed him a lovely smile of perfectly straight, white teeth, he had to smile back.  "I-I'm sorry I was staring, I know it's rude."

"Don't worry about it, and don't be afraid," she said.  "I'm really perfectly normal."  Indicating her attire, she said, "This is just to get my parents to notice me."

"I see," Steve replied, liking the girl already.  "If you don't mind my saying so, I wouldn't think you'd have to try that hard."

"I don't mind, but you try being noticed when you're the fourth of seven kids in a 'blended family', three his, two hers, and two theirs."  

She had marked the quotes in the air and rolled her eyes when she said, 'blended family,' and Steve had the strong impression she didn't approve of political correctness. 

"Normal and smart don't get any attention at our house," she explained to him, "and sometimes the best praise you can get is to be ignored.  I could have looked normal and been a loser like my twin brother, but he's been in jail twice and dropped out of school.  I look like a freak, but I have straight A's."

"Oh, I see," Steve said.  Wondering if she simply underestimated the amount of attention her parents gave her, he asked, "And are your parents paying for this class?"

"No," she said mockingly.  "You think I'm just another whiny kid, don't you?  My real dad sends me a check every month.  He gave me a bonus for Christmas, enough to pay for these lessons.  I haven't seen him or had a phone call from him in two years, but on the memo line of every check, he writes, 'I love you,' every time."  

She said 'I love you' in that mocking tone again, and Steve couldn't help but feel bad for her.  He could tell she knew where she stood in the world, and unfortunately, it was at the bottom of everyone's list of priorities.  He wondered how long it would be until she got into some serious trouble.

"Don't feel bad for me," she said, surprising him.  "My family might be a mess, and all the people who should care don't, but I have a few really good friends, and we don't smoke or drink or get high or have orgies or anything like that, and they'll think it's really cool that I'm learning to play the violin."  Then she extended her hand to him and smiled again and said, "Sara Andersen, and you are?"

Steve smiled back, "Steve Sloan.  You don't happen to read minds, do you, Sara?"

"No," she said, her tone very matter of fact, "but everyone says the same thing when they meet me, so I could guess what you were thinking."  Then she winked and whispered, "Watch this."

She turned on her stool to face the bow-tie guy and Steve heard her say, "Boo!"  He had to stifle a laugh when the poor man jumped and nearly fell off his stool.

To Steve's left was a slender Asian man, probably in his sixties or seventies.  Hair that had once been pure black was now salt and pepper with a Fu Manchu moustache to match.  Brown eyes, so dark they were nearly black, glittered with natural curiosity, and an expressive face revealed his every thought as he took in his surroundings.  Despite the obvious differences, the man reminded Steve very much of his dad.  Taking a cue from Sara, when the old man finally looked at him, Steve extended his hand and introduced himself.

A strong grip belied seeming frailty, and in a reedy voice, Steve's neighbor said, "I am Yoon MinJe, and I am pleased to meet you, Steve Sloan."

"I am pleased to meet you, too, Mr. MinJe."

Steve was a bit startled when the old man cackled at him.  "Yoon is my surname," he explained, "MinJe is my given name.  Koreans place a high value on clan connections, so we put the family name first."

"I see.  Then, what should I call you?"

Yoon MinJe looked inscrutable for a few moments, then he grinned.  "Most people who know no better call me Yoon, but you may call me MinJe."

Steve smiled and nodded.  "All right, and you can call me Steve."

Sitting beside MinJe was a woman in her thirties and a girl of about twelve.  They had been bickering since they walked in the door, and were clearly mother and daughter.  The girl was the image of her mother, which Steve thought unfortunate, because the mother was not an attractive woman.  She was too thin, waspish, pinched-faced, and irritable.  Both she and her daughter had reeked of cigarette smoke when they walked in, though Steve sincerely hoped the nasty habit belonged to the mother and not the daughter yet.  As Steve watched them, he realized they would actually both be much more attractive if they simply didn't look so mean and ill tempered.

"I don't want to be here!" wailed the girl.

"Look," the mother snapped back, "you said you wanted violin lessons for Christmas."

"Yeah," the girl whined, "for _me_, not for _us_."

Steve suspected this was an attempt at so-called 'quality time' that the child wanted no part of.  She had probably asked for the lessons, fancying herself an artist among philistines, and now that her mother was invading her fantasy world in an effort to meet the parental obligation of showing an interest in her child, the girl wanted nothing more to do with the violin.

"Well, Amy, that's just too bad.  I'm here, and that's that."  She grabbed the girl's arm and pulled her close, whispering, though not quietly enough to keep the rest of the class from hearing, "Just look at these people.  There's no telling what they might do to you if you were here alone.  Now, just relax and try to enjoy yourself.  If you pay attention, you might even learn something."

Steve couldn't fault the woman for her caution.  As a seasoned cop, he knew better than most people just how evil the dark side of society could be.  Still, he felt vaguely insulted at being lumped in with 'these people'.  Even after all his years on the force, he still tried to keep an open mind about people and didn't suspect them until he felt he had reason to.  Sometimes, his reason might be just a gut feeling, but his instincts were good, and his gut seldom lied.

"I want to GO HOME!" Amy yelled.

MinJe leaned in and said softly to Steve, "I don't know what's wrong with children these days.  My son and daughter would have been ashamed to act that way."

Before Steve could reply, Sara turned around, and, feeling no shame herself, she said loudly enough for everyone to hear, "At least half the problem with kids these days is their parents.  Most of my classmates do the stupid things they do because no one cares enough to stop them.  Do you think kids would want to get high or drunk or have sex if they knew what it was like to be loved?"

Before Steve or MinJe could say anything, a strange looking man walked in and introduced himself as Cole Simon, their instructor.  They were to address him as Mr. Simon or Maestro.  Steve heard a snort of laughter from Sara, and, after giving her a glance that clearly said 'cool it,' he looked to the other side of his to see MinJe leaning back slightly to peek around him and glower at the girl.

Mr. Simon was bald as an egg on the top of his head, but he had lots of bushy, curly black hair that formed a ring around the sides of his head reminding Steve of a mountaintop sticking up out of the clouds.  There was a large raised mole on his scalp about two inches above the hairline and directly above his right eye, and Steve was sure he wasn't the only one in the class who kept finding himself staring at it.  Mr. Simon wore a beat up leather jacket, faded jeans blown out at the knees, and canvas Converse sneakers with holes at both big toes and one of the little ones.  He had a five o'clock shadow, and deep creases formed on his face when he turned to frown at them.  His eyes were set so deep beneath a heavy brow that Steve couldn't guess at their color, and he had a sallow complexion.

Sara leaned over and whispered to Steve, "I think he's a bit old for the grunge look."

Steve cast her a sideways glance, and hoped it conveyed disapproval rather than amusement.  He really didn't mind her wise cracks, but he was paying good money for these lessons and didn't want any of it wasted on teacher-student conflicts.

Mr. Simon handed out nametags, then, and asked them all to wear them every day for the first week of the course.  Once they had their nametags on, Steve found out the older woman's name was Silvia, the bow tie guy was Marcos, and Amy's mother was named Melinda.  At Mr. Simon's orders, they all stood, and, gathering their things, moved away from the stools they had been sitting on.

"Ok, first of all, is there anyone here who can't read music?"

Steve was mortified to find he was the only one who raised his hand.  

Mr. Simon rolled his eyes, and in a stage whisper, contemptuously said, "There is always one!  Why, is there always one?"  Then he smiled disdainfully at Steve, and pointing from him to the stool on the end said, "You!  Over there!"

Obediently, and hoping to avoid any further embarrassment, Steve quickly complied.  When he was settled, he began to open his instrument case so he would be ready when the lesson began, but Mr. Simon made a tsk, tsk, tsk, noise at him and said scornfully, "Don't even bother with that."

"But I thought . . . "

"That was your first mistake," Mr. Simon told him.  He set his own instrument case on the stool beside Steve and opened it.  Taking out a small booklet, he handed it to Steve and said condescendingly, "Here.  When you learn to read music and count, I will teach you to play the violin.  Until then, just stay out of the way, all right?"

Too stunned and ashamed to be angry, Steve just nodded, closed the case on his rented violin, and said, "All right."

"Now," Mr. Simon continued.  "Who can read music, but doesn't play any other instrument?"

Steve wasn't surprised when the only one foolish enough to raise his hand was Marcos.  In this way, Mr. Simon sorted the class into three groups.  Steve was on his own, all the way at the end of the row with his little booklet, 'Reading Music Made Easy' by Cole Simon.  Mr. Simon had left two empty seats between him and the rest of the group.  Marcos was next, along with Silvia, because Mr. Simon did not consider the Jew's harp, harmonica, and spoons musical instruments.  Sara, MinJe, Melinda, and Amy were all together because they each played at least one other instrument.  Steve was surprised to learn that Sara played the clarinet, trumpet, guitar, piano, and flute, and she was taking lessons on the harp at school.  He was glad to see that MinJe was also impressed.  He liked Sara and MinJe, and hoped they would get along.

By the break forty-five minutes into the class, all of the students except Steve had been allowed to tune their instruments and tighten their bows.  They could all name the parts of the violin and had received instruction on basic maintenance.  Steve was still struggling to make sense of the booklet Mr. Simon had given him.

When the students went out into the lobby, Sara bought herself a Diet Coke from the vending machine and came to stand beside Steve who was growing more frustrated by the minute trying to study his lesson.  She tilted her head to read the cover and burst out laughing.

"Oh, my God, he is such a pompous jerk!"  

Steve murmured some form of reply and continued reading and MinJe came to join them.  Sara sidled up close to him and read over his shoulder.  

After a moment, she said, "He calls that easy?  Puh-leeze!"

When Steve just continued reading, she yanked the book out of his hand and said, "Look at me."

He did and she said, "Why did you let him treat you like that?"

"Like what?"  Steve feigned ignorance, but Sara gave him a, 'Who do you think you're kidding?' look, so he just smiled and said, "He took me by surprise, and it just wasn't worth getting upset over."

"Ok, the surprise I can understand," Sara said.

"Yes," MinJe said.  "His behavior was appalling, and I am sure we were all surprised, but you had every right to be upset as well."

"Yeah," Sara said.  "He was rude and condescending and insulting, and you should have said something, and by the way, the other half of the problem with kids these days is society.  There was a time when people used to look out for each other, and there was a real social pressure to be courteous.  Kids didn't get away with being smart or rude because someone would always correct them.  When you didn't stand up for yourself, we should have said something on your behalf."

"She is right," MinJe agreed.

"Well, I didn't, and you didn't," Steve said, "and it doesn't matter now."  

The fact was it did matter very much to Steve now, more so than when it had happened because he had gotten over the shock of being so poorly treated and was feeling very insulted and angry.  He was also frustrated because he hadn't been able to make heads nor tails of the book, and all he wanted to do was learn to play a song or two well enough to get his mother's violin back from Mr. Downing in time to present it to his father at Christmas.

"May I please have my book back, now?"

"No," Sara said, and she handed it to MinJe.  Then she grabbed Steve by the arm and led him into a vacant classroom.  MinJe took one look at the book, shook his head, and threw it in the trash.  Then he followed them into the empty room, curious to see what the young spitfire was about to do next.

"Sara, what are you doing?"  Steve demanded.

"I am teaching you to read music," she said.

"That's what the book is for," Steve told her.

"That book is garbage," Sara argued.

"She is right," MinJe said again, "and that is where I put it.  We will teach you now so when we go back you can join the rest of the class."

Steve looked warily at the unlikely allies.  He had the distinct impression they were ganging up on him, but now that his book was gone, he had no choice but to attend their lesson.

Sara started by going to the chalkboard and drawing a loopy, swirly thing that looked to be part figure eight, part ampersand.

"That is the treble clef," MinJe said.  "Music for violin is written in the treble clef."

"And this is the bass clef," Sara said, drawing an ear with a colon next to it, but you won't have to read it unless Mole decides to be a jerk and quiz you on it."

"Mole?"  Steve and MinJe said in unison.

"Cole, mole, the thing on his head," Sara told them.

MinJe laughed and Steve just rolled his eyes.

Sara drew five lines and labeled them from bottom to top, EGBDF.  "Ok, Steve, just remember, Every Good Boy Does Fine, and the spaces spell FACE."

Now MinJe went to the board and drew in the notes for the bass clef and labeled them.  "They are off by one space and one line, but the notes are the same."

In twenty minutes, they had him counting 3/4 time, 4/4 time, cut time, and 5/8 time.  He could identify whole, half, quarter, eighth, and sixteenth notes and rests on site, and clap even the most complex rhythms Sara could invent by the third try.  He knew _f_ was loud, _p_ was soft, and _sfz_ meant hit it hard and back off fast.  He understood what a key signature was and knew the symbols for sharp, flat, and natural, but never having played an instrument before, he couldn't hear it in his head.

"Ok," Sara said, "that was a quick and dirty lesson, and you'll have forgotten most of it by tomorrow, but if you meet me here at say, seven thirty, I'll be glad to review with you.  I have an old intro to musical notation book at home that you can borrow until you get the hang of it."

"And now we are late," MinJe said, "and we should be getting back."

As the three of them crept back into class, Mr. Simon reeled on them and snapped, "In the future, if you cannot return from the break on time, do not bother to return."

"So sorry, Mr. Simon," MinJe apologized, "it will not happen again."

"Yeah," Sara said.  "We taught Steve to read music for you during the break, so now he can join the class."

"Oh, you did, did you?"

"Yes, Sir, Mole," Sara said, smiling innocently.

Silvia gasped, Marcos chuckled, and Amy and Melinda laughed aloud as Mr. Simon's hand flew to the mole on his head.

"Uh, Cole . . . I mean, Mr. Simon," Sara said.  Then in a loud whisper, she added, "Sorry!"

While she was talking, MinJe had collected his and Sara's things and brought them over to the two empty seats between Steve and Marcos.

"What do you think you're doing?"  Mr. Simon asked.

"We will help Steve keep up with the class," MinJe said.  "He's a little behind since you didn't allow him to participate in the first half of the lesson."

"I didn't give either of you permission to move your seats," Mr. Simon said.

"We didn't ask," Sara said, and plopped herself down on the stool beside Steve with a note of finality.

"We will not disrupt the lesson any further," MinJe said.  "Please, teach us, Maestro."

Mr. Simon shot the three of them a lethal look and moved on with his lesson.

"Ok, you," Mr. Simon said pointing to Melinda who sat at the end opposite Steve, "you're first."

"Excuse me, Mole . . . I mean, Cole . . . Mr. Simon," Sara said and his hand flew to his head to cover the blemish as it had before and several of the students laughed, "but what's the point of nametags if you're just going to point at us and say, 'you' all the time?  Maybe you should wear a nametag.  I know you want us to call you Mr. Simon or Maestro, but Cole is a great name, and it's kind of stuck in my brain, but then there's that thing on your head," the hand went up and more chuckles erupted, "and, well, it just really messes me up for some reason.  If you had a nametag, I might not slip up and call you Mole, Mole," the hand, "I mean Cole," the laughter, "I mean Mr. Simon."

Mr. Cole Simon was livid and sputtering with rage, and despite his earlier rude behavior, Steve felt a little sorry for him.  As he advanced toward Sara, Steve decided he better intervene, and, taking Sara by the hand, he said, "We'll be right back."

Leaving their instructor still stammering, Steve dragged Sara out into the hall.  

"Oh, my God, do you believe that?  He was so mad!"  Sara said, laughing hysterically.  "That was just too funny!"

As she slowly calmed her laughter, she realized that Steve wasn't laughing.  She looked at him and said, "Why are you such a stick in the mud?"

"It wasn't funny, Sara."

"Oh, come on, Steve!  After the way he treated you, he deserved it."

"That may be so, but that doesn't make it funny."

"Oh, don't be such a fuddy-duddy, Steve!"

"You know, earlier, you said part of the problem with kids these days is that no one cares enough to stop them when they are doing something foolish," he said.  Then, giving her a dead level stare, he asked, "How can you be so sure of yourself when you don't even recognize someone who cares?  What you are doing to Mr. Simon is mean, childish, and unbecoming, and I am asking you to stop it."

Chastened, Sara dropped her smile, lowered her eyes, and nodded.  "Ok, I'll stop, but if he keeps acting like a jerk, I'll tell him about it."

Pouting, she turned to open the door, but Steve caught her elbow.  She looked at him, and he said, "There's nothing wrong with confronting a problem, Sara.  That's the first step to solving it, but when you give like for like, that only makes more trouble."

She thought about his advice briefly, smiled, nodded, and went back into the classroom, Steve following her.

When Steve and Sara returned, Mr. Simon glared at them for a full fifteen seconds.  Steve watched as Sara met his gaze defiantly, only looking away when Steve gently touched her elbow and quietly asked her a question.

For the remainder of the class, Mr. Simon had the students attempt to play their instruments one at a time.  As each student had only limited success in making music and much success in making dying animal noises, Mr. Simon became progressively more agitated.

"No, no, NO!" he shouted as Marcos screeched out a few almost-notes.  "Like this."  He lifted his own instrument and pulled the bow across the strings a few times producing a simple series of notes.

Marcos tried again, with little success, and Mr. Simon just rolled his eyes and shook his head.  "Stop!  That's enough for tonight."  He turned to MinJe and said, "You, you're next."

"My name is MinJe, Mr. Simon," the old man tried to nudge his instructor into showing some respect.

"Ok, whatever, let's hear you."

MinJe sighed regretfully, knowing his effort had been for naught.  He raised his instrument and pulled the bow across the strings.  Though the sounds he produced were the least painful so far, they were still far from music.

"Stop!"  Mr. Simon said before MinJe could have a second go at it.  "We're running short of time," he said, and everyone heard him mutter, "Thank God!"  Then he turned to Sara and said, "You.  Go."

Sara cleared her throat and made a great show of pointing to her nametag.  

"I don't have all night," Mr. Simon told her.

She cleared her throat and coughed, and slapped her hand against her nametag three times, then left her hand on her chest pointing to her name.

Mr. Simon glared at her for a long moment, and she glared back at him.  Finally, he smiled wickedly, showing lots of teeth, as if he wanted to bite her head off, then, with strained politeness, his teeth clenched the whole time, he said, "Sara, it's your turn.  Would you like to play for the group?"  

"Yes, Sir, Mr. Simon.  Thank you."  She gave him a brilliant, toothy smile that never touched her eyes and drew the bow across the strings.  Mr. Simon stopped her after less than a minute.

"That's enough!  That's enough!"  Turning to Steve, he said, "You're next . . . "  As Steve raised an eyebrow and Sara cleared her throat, he added hastily, ". . .Steve."

Suddenly Steve was nervous.  His face felt hot, and he knew he was blushing.  He was the least musically talented of the group, and as bad as they had sounded, he was almost afraid to take his turn.  His palms began to sweat, and he swallowed hard as he raised his rented instrument.  His bow, held in a trembling hand quivered above the strings for a moment in indecision, then he held his breath, brought it down, and drew it hesitantly across the strings.

A sweet, mellow sound floated through the room amid gasps and soft exclamations of surprise.  Steve slid the bow across the strings again, and the same sound greeted his ears, and he started breathing once more.  He gave it another try; this time moving his fingers to a different position on the fingerboard, and the tone was different, but still unabashedly beautiful.  

Music.  Steve grinned.  He was making music.

Suddenly, Mr. Simon's caustic voice cut across his thoughts.  "Ok, enough for tonight.  At least someone learned something," he said, looking daggers at Steve.  "Now, you need to know how to store your instrument properly."

For the last ten minutes of class, Mr. Simon showed them how to wipe the rosin off the violin, loosen the bow, and place both pieces in the case so they would not be damaged.  Then he recommended they purchase a device called a Dampit to help keep the violin from drying out.  Finally, he reminded them that their tuition for the class included five hours a week in the music practice rooms and he highly recommended they all take advantage of it.

"You can record yourself playing and then listen for your mistakes.  God knows, you'll make enough of those, and all of you can use the practice.  Some more than others," he added, giving Marcos a hard stare.

As the class filtered out of the room, Steve approached Mr. Simon.

"What do you want?" the instructor asked before Steve had a chance to begin.

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry."  Out of the corner of his eye, Steve saw Sara turn and begin to stomp toward him and he saw MinJe take her wrist and hold her back.  As he continued speaking to Mr. Simon, he silently thanked MinJe for the intervention.

"I didn't see where the course description listed the ability to read music as a prerequisite.  Sara and MinJe were a great help, and Sara has offered to tutor me until I get the hang of it.  I'll try not to hold up the rest of the class, and I promise we won't interrupt again."

"Ok," Mr. Simon said dismissively, not even looking up,  "See that you don't."

When Steve didn't walk away immediately, Mr. Simon looked up.  Something in the larger man's posture said he was waiting for something.  Suddenly, Cole Simon didn't feel quite so important anymore.

"A-apology accepted," he said stiffly.

"Thank you, Sir."

As Steve walked out into the lobby, Sara came stalking over to him, MinJe following in her wake.

"Reading music was not one of the prerequisites for taking this class, Steve.  Mole . . ." Steve raised an eyebrow and she amended her statement.  "Mr. Simon was just being a jerk."

"I know that, Sara," Steve told her.

"Then why did you apologize?"

"It's called subtlety," Steve tried to explain.

"Huh?"

MinJe smiled and elaborated.  "Not only does Steve know that reading music was not a prerequisite, but Mr. Simon knows that he knows, am I right?"

Steve nodded.  "I suppose."

"So?"

"Call it an olive branch," Steve said.

"With a very big stick," MinJe added.

Sara looked perplexed, then she grinned broadly.  

"Oh, I get it.  You're offering to write tonight off as a bad start, but you let him know he better change his attitude tomorrow."

Steve nodded and said to MinJe, "You know, some of the kids these days are sharper than most people think."

"Oh, I agree," MinJe said nodding.

Sara stuck her tongue out at both of them.  Looking at his watch, Steve said, "It's getting late and I have to be at work early in the morning.  I'll see you two tomorrow, and thanks for helping me out.  I was really feeling like the class dunce before the break."

After Steve shook their hands and said his goodbyes, Sara looked at MinJe and said, "Dunce?"

"You know what it means, yes?"

Sara nodded.  "It's a dummy, right?"

"Yes."

They looked at each other and shrugged.  Then MinJe grinned.  Sara grinned back and said, "He has no clue how good he is, does he?"

MinJe shook his head and told her, "No, he has no idea at all."


	4. Comparing Notes

**Chapter Four:  Comparing Notes**

**(November 7th)**

"Jess," Mark said, entering the doctors' lounge late Thursday afternoon.  "Could I talk to you a minute?  It's about Steve."

Dr. Alex Martin, who had been drinking a cup of coffee on his break, got up to leave, intending to give the two of them some privacy, but Mark said, "No, Alex, please stay.  I wanted to talk to you, too."

"Oh, ok," Alex said, as he sat back down, pleased to be included in the discussion.  He hadn't said anything to anyone, but he had been a little concerned about Steve lately.  He just didn't know how to address the matter because, while he definitely considered Steve his friend, he was also his boss at Bob's.  Mark, Jesse, and Amanda were his friends, too, but they were still his supervisors and mentors at the hospital.  Sometimes, being the low man on the totem pole had some serious disadvantages.

"What's up, Mark?"  Jesse asked, noting his friend's expression.  "Are you worried about Steve?"  

As Jesse fixed each of them a coffee and came to the table, Mark tried to explain.  "I just haven't been seeing much of him lately, Jess, and he's been, I don't know, different, when I have seen him.  I was wondering if you had noticed anything unusual."

"I haven't really seen him a lot lately either, Mark.  Maybe he's busy with some big case," Jesse suggested.

Mark shook his head.  "No.  No, when that happens, he usually likes to bounce some ideas off me, but he hasn't said a word, and he seems distracted lately, too."

Jesse nodded.  "Yeah, I've noticed that, but he doesn't really seem down.  I mean, twice this week, I've heard him humming Christmas carols."

"Steve?  Humming?"

"Well," Jesse said, grinning, "it was a little off key."

"A little?" Alex interjected, and they all laughed.  "Seriously though, Mark, he seemed almost festive when I heard him, but . . ." Alex trailed off.

When Alex hesitated, Mark pressed him.  "But what, Alex?"

Sighing, Alex resigned himself to telling Mark everything he knew.  Mark tried hard not to be nosy, but when someone he cared about was having problems, he could be quite tenacious, and when that someone was Steve, there was no hope of keeping anything from him.

"Look, I value my health, and Steve's friendship, and I need my job at Bob's, so, if you confront him about this, don't let him know you heard it from me, ok?"

When Mark and Jesse agreed, he explained.  Looking at Jess, he said, "You know he was scheduled to work at Bob's every night this week, right?"

Jesse nodded and looked at Mark.  "Alicia's mom is ill," Jesse reminded him, "and I'm working nights here."

Mark smiled proudly.  He knew since Bob's night manager had been off to care for her ailing mother, either Steve or Jesse needed to be there to total the receipts and lock up at the end of the night.  Mark was pleased and proud that Steve and Jesse were such compassionate bosses.  Sometimes it created a hectic schedule for both of them, but their employees were fiercely loyal and happy in their jobs, and business was booming because of it.

"Works out, great for me, though," Jesse continued, cutting through Mark's mental ramblings.  "The past few days have been beautiful, and I have really been enjoying the weather.  I went for a run the other day, and it was great.  I'm sorry Steve hasn't had any time off.  I was hoping we could shoot some hoops or go out to the batting cages or something."

Mark smiled and nodded.  Jesse was like a kid out of school during the days when he worked nights, and it was just like him to want to spend some of the time playing with his best friend while the weather was good.  When Steve had been scheduled to work nine-to-five every day that week, though, Jesse hadn't let his sympathy for his friend taint a moment of his fun.  The young man was not insincere in his regret that Steve couldn't join him for some outdoor activities, but he knew it couldn't be helped.  So, he chose to make the most of the few remaining bright days of autumn, storing up fresh air and sunshine before the dreary winter set in.  They had had a long string of glorious, golden autumn days lately, and the gorgeous weather would probably end soon.  

"I suppose that could explain why he hasn't been around much this week," Jesse's statement broke into Mark's thoughts.

"I'm not so sure about that," Alex said.  "Again, please don't let Steve know I told you this, but, every night this week, he has had one of the wait staff cover for him for part of his shift."

"Huh?" said Mark.

"What!"  Jesse exclaimed.

Alex nodded.  "He comes in about a quarter 'til six, as usual."  Looking at Mark, he added, "He likes to be a little early for a shift."

Mark nodded, knowing that was typical behavior for his son.

"Then he leaves at about quarter past six and doesn't get back until ten.  He does the receipts, locks up, and goes home."

Both Jesse and Mark were frowning.  

"I wonder why he's doing that," Jesse said.

"I don't know," Mark said.  "Maybe it has something to do with his police work."

"Could be," Jesse replied, "but why keep it a secret?"

"I don't know the answer to that, either."  Mark looked at Alex, "What makes you think he doesn't want us to know he's having someone cover for him?"

"He's been paying them cash out of his own pocket, Mark."

"No check stub," Mark said.

"No paper trail," Jesse added.

Alex looked at his watch and, saying, "My break is almost over, and I'd like to get some fresh air before I go back to work.  I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help."  He left his two friends and mentors sitting in the lounge frowning over their cooling cups of coffee.

Steve stood in Amanda's office waiting for her to finish the report he needed and softly humming the melody to 'Angels We Have Heard on High'.  He was dimly aware that he was a little sharp--or maybe a little flat, he really had no idea--but in his mind, he played the violin part flawlessly.  He had to smile.  After his initial resistance and that horrible first class, he couldn't believe how much he had come to enjoy playing the violin.  He also couldn't believe how fast he had learned to play a few simple tunes.

He knew he wasn't really any good yet, but he, Sara, and MinJe had been practicing every day this week.  He helped them with their technique, and they helped him read music.  He still struggled with key signatures, but he was confident that by Christmas, he would have his mom's violin back and be able to play something beautiful for his dad.

He'd explained the whole situation to Sara and MinJe, and they had both been very helpful.  Sara had picked out several selections of sheet music that would be easy for him to master, and MinJe had showed him how to transpose some of the voice parts to violin.  He could play several songs better, but for some reason, he really wanted to get 'Angels We Have Heard on High' just right for his dad.

"Steve?  Steve!"

"Huh?  Oh, thanks, Amanda," he said taking the file she was holding out to him.

"Steve are you ok?"

"Yes, fine, why?" he asked.

"Because you seemed a million miles away, and you were humming."  She folded her hands and rested her elbows on the desk.

He blushed slightly and smiled.  "I just have something on my mind, I guess."

Amanda looked at him askance and smiled.  His grin got broader and his blush got redder.  Leaning forward, bright-eyed, and resting her chin on her hands, she couldn't resist the chance to tease.

"Ok, give!" she commanded.  "What's her name?"

"Her who?"

"Come on, Steve, you are obviously…" she chose her next word carefully, knowing too well Steve's romantic history.  "…interested in someone."

Laughing and blushing even more, Steve said, "Really, Amanda, there's no one.  I just, well, I guess I'm just in the Christmas spirit."

"Uh-huh," she said, clearly not believing him, "and I'm at the North Pole."

Steve checked his watch.  He had just enough time to get back to the station with this file to close his case, then he needed to get to Bob's for the start of his shift.  When Kerry came to cover for him, he would head off to the college to practice with Sara and MinJe, then he had class tonight.  He'd come back to the restaurant to close and count the receipts, then make a night deposit at the bank.  He'd be home by eleven, shower, and crash by twelve.  He yawned when he realized he'd have to be up by six to do it all again the next day.

"Ah-hah!"  Amanda exclaimed.

"What?"

"She's keeping you up nights, isn't she?"

"Amanda," Steve said in a tone that clearly showed she was trying his patience, "there is no she."

"I don't believe you," she taunted, but at his 'Let's get back to business' look, she changed the topic.

"Well, you were right," Amanda said, "the blood on the other end of the tent stake matched the sample we took from Agnes Porter.  She must have cut herself on it when she pounded it into her husband's chest.  I did some checking around, and she had a cut on her palm stitched at Mercy Hospital about the time of the murder."

"Ok, thanks Amanda.  I'm sure it won't make a merry Christmas for Frank Porter's parents and kids, but maybe they will get some peace from knowing his killer was brought to justice."

"I suppose, but it's going to be really hard on his kids knowing their mom zipped their dad up in his own sleeping bag and nailed him to the ground."

"Oh, I don't know," Steve said.  "She was their second step-mom, and their dad married her after they were all grown.  They didn't seem to like her very much to begin with, and I don't think they will have any trouble hating her for the fact that she killed their dad for his money."

"Is that a good thing?"

Steve gave her a 'what can you do' look, shrugged his broad shoulders and said, "We don't live in a perfect world.  You take what you can get."

Standing up, he said, "And, I've got a murderer to arrest.  Thanks again, Amanda.  I'll see you later."  He was humming again by the time he reached the door, and Amanda had to chuckle.  She stood and stretched and decided it was time for a cup of coffee and a visit with the living.  As she headed down the hall, she decided to take a circuitous route to the lounge, going outside and coming in the main entrance to the ER so that she could enjoy remains of the beautiful day on her way.

"Wow, you two look serious," Amanda said as she entered the lounge to see Mark and Jesse having what appeared to be a frowning contest.  "Should I be expecting one of your patients any time soon?"

"Huh?  Oh, no, no Amanda," Mark said.  "Nothing like that."

"But something is up, Mark.  I can tell.  What's the matter?"

"I'm a little worried about Steve, Sweetie," Mark told her.  

"He's been acting a little strange lately," Jesse added.

Amanda laughed aloud then.  "That's because he's in love."

After their exclamations of surprise, she laughed again and asked them, "Haven't you seen the sign?"

"You mean signs," Jesse said, "and no, neither of us have seen him much at all lately."

"No, I meant sign, Jesse," she said patiently.  "The one hanging over his head that says, 'Tease me about my girlfriend.'  He just left my office, grinning, blushing, and humming to himself."

"Well, Mark, there you have it.  He's found someone."

"Then why keep it a secret?"  Mark asked, still looking distressed.

"Maybe he just wants to enjoy the bloom of a new romance for a while before he shares the news with all of his friends," Amanda suggested.  Then, again remembering her friend's usually dismal love life, she added, "I just hope she'll be good for him."

"Yeah," Jesse added.  "He deserves to meet a nice girl for a change."

"I don't know," Mark said thoughtfully.  "If Amanda's right, I don't think she'll be any good for him, and I doubt she's all that nice."

"Mark!  How can you say that?"  Amanda asked.

"Yeah," Jesse added, "a minute ago you didn't even realize he was seeing anyone."

"I know," Mark said, "but think about it."  After telling Amanda what Alex had said, he laid out the facts for them.  "Steve is neglecting his responsibilities at Bob's.  He's paying other people out of his own pocket to work for him, and he's keeping it a secret from us.  Whoever this woman is, he's meeting her at roughly the same time every night, on a predictable schedule.  He isn't just dropping by to say hello, and she apparently never comes to see him.  More importantly, he hasn't told any of us about her.  Why is he sneaking around?"

"Mark, are you suggesting Steve is having an affair?"

"So what if he is?"  Jesse asked.  "He's not married."

"Maybe she is," Amanda said.

"Oh.  Oh man, Mark, do you think that's what's happening?"

"I don't know, Jesse," the older doctor told his young friend.  "After what happened with Maeve, I can't believe he'd do such a thing."  Shaking his head, Mark said, "No, Steve wouldn't do that."

"Well, then what do you think he is doing," Amanda asked.

"I have no idea," Mark said, "but I don't like it.  I don't like it at all."

Now, there were three doctors frowning in the lounge, each trying to think of a way to discretely gather more information about Steve's mysterious affair.

"It's still not right," Steve groaned as he listened to the playback on the piece he had just been practicing.  He was struggling with the 'gloria' section in 'Angels We Have Heard on High'.

"Steve," Sara told him, "it was beautiful."  She could hear nothing wrong with it.

Sara had been in the practice rooms since five thirty.  When Steve arrived at six thirty, he always let her join him.  That way she got the hour a day that was included in the cost of the class and some extra practice time on Steve's hour.  He got some hints on reading music from her in return.  Sometimes MinJe joined them, sometimes not.  Today, he wasn't planning to come until just in time for class because he had a book club meeting from six thirty to seven thirty.

Steve smiled at her and, rewinding the tape, said, "Thanks.  Really."  Shrugging, he said modestly, "I guess it wasn't so bad, but it wasn't right either."  He hit the play button again and said, "Listen to this section."  He stopped and replayed it, "You hear that?"

Sara listened closely and said, "Sorry, I don't hear anything wrong."

Sighing, Steve took out the recording of himself and popped in a tape of a professional performance of the same piece.  "Ok," he said, as the troublesome part approached, "listen.  There!  Hear it?"

Sara had been listening intently.  Now she shook her head again.  "Sorry, nope."

Steve rewound and played the section again.  Then he sung it back to her as best he could.  "Daah, DAH, dah dah dah.  Daah, DAH, dah dah dah.  Daah, DAH, dah dah dah.  Daah!  Da! Da!"

She nodded.

"Got it in your head now?"

She nodded again.

"Ok, now listen to me."  He played his part back and said, "See, I have something wrong, but I don't know what.  I have the notes, but something's missing.  Any ideas?"

Sara frowned and then nodded.  "Syncopation."

"Huh?"

"You're missing the syncopation.  You've got to hit the off notes."  
  


Steve shook his head.  "I'm sorry, Sara, I still don't understand."

Knowing she wasn't up for the piece Steve was working on, she mentally filed through her limited repertoire, and came up with 'Mary Had a Little Lamb'.  When she finished, Steve was laughing.

"What?"

"Long story," was all he told her.

"We can't all be latent geniuses," she said, "I can play it well, and that's good enough for now."

She looked hurt, so Steve said, "Teach me about syncopation, then I'll explain."

Sara played the simple melody again, and said, "Everybody knows the tune, right?  Very familiar."

"Yes.  So?"

"Listen."

Sara played the tune again, and it was completely different this time.  The notes were the same, but everything was off kilter somehow.  It didn't sound bad, just different.  He made a puzzled face.

"Ok, I think I get it."

Picking up his instrument, he gave it a shot, and began grinning when he realized the music he heard was now what it should be.  

Flushed with excitement, he finished the whole piece and then said, "Sara, thank you.  Do you have any idea how long I have been working to get that right?"

"Yes…"  Ready to tell him exactly how long it had been, she looked at her watch, but the growling of her stomach interrupted her reply and she burst out laughing.  It was seven thirty, and their practice was up.  "You've been working on it too long," she said, "and I'm hungry."

"Ok," Mark said when he, Jesse, and Amanda had finished comparing notes on Steve's odd behavior, "Jesse, you'll call on your meal break then and ask for Steve.  If he's not there, that will be your excuse to ask him where he's been and what he's been doing.  That will keep Alex out of trouble."

"Right," Jesse agreed, "and if he is there, I'll just order some take out and let him know you are concerned that he hasn't been around much lately and tell him he needs to talk to you."

"Good, and Amanda," Mark said, "see if you can find out anything about this mystery woman next time you see Steve."

"I will, Mark.  Count on it."

"All right, well then," Mark said looking at his watch.  It was seven thirty-five.  "I need to get going.  I'm the guest speaker at an advanced nursing class at LA Valley Community College tonight, and I should be there in about twenty minutes."

He took his leave and headed out the door.

"Mayonnaise on French fries?"  Steve said, a little disgusted, as he joined Sara at a picnic table.  It was a beautiful, sparkling Indian summer evening, and, so they didn't have to rush their meal after waiting in the cafeteria line, they had decided to buy dinner from an outdoor vendor who had set up near their classroom building to take full advantage of the few remaining nice days of autumn before the chill of winter set in.

"Oh, yeah, it's good stuff," Sara told him.  "Try one."

She picked up a fry, loaded with mayonnaise, and held it before his mouth.  He opened up and she popped it in.  He chewed it thoughtfully.

"Hmmmm," Steve said, "Not bad, but still not as good as the fries at Barbecue Bob's."

"Oh, am I ever getting sick of hearing about your restaurant.  Bring me some takeout sometime, and let me judge for myself how good it is."

"Ok, I'll do that, soon, and you'll see that I'm right."

Sara rolled her eyes, not giving an inch.  "So, tell me why you laughed when I played 'Mary Had a Little Lamb,'" she said, changing the subject.

"Ok, I was fifteen, maybe sixteen years old . . . " Steve began.

Mark smiled as he looked over at the young couple at the picnic table under the light.  They were laughing and chatting and clearly enjoying each other's company and the lovely weather.  The girl, dressed all in black, was feeding her boyfriend, and he seemed to be enjoying it.  The boyfriend wasn't so young, either, he realized.  Then he froze in his tracks as a chill crept up his spine.  The boyfriend was his son.  And the girl?  She was very lovely, but she was definitely just a girl.  Mark doubted she was eighteen yet, and she still had the gawky look and slightly awkward manner of an adolescent who hadn't yet fully grown into to her taller, larger frame.

Mark had a sick, sinking feeling in his stomach as he watched the girl pick up another French fry from her plate and hold it to Steve's lips.  As he opened his mouth, she pulled it away, and he followed.  She pulled it away and Steve followed again.  The third time, she planted a kiss full on his mouth, and Mark had to turn away as the sound of girlish laughter made his guts twist.  Besides feeling quite ill, Mark also knew now was neither the time nor the place for a confrontation.  He was too upset, and he had a prior obligation.  He continued heading down the sidewalk to his classroom building, trying hard not to see them any more.

As soon as she realized Steve was not pleased with her, Sara blushed, stopped laughing, dropped her eyes, and lowered her head, the blonde hair falling like a curtain over her face, shielding her from his displeasure.

"Look at me, Sara," Steve said softly.

  
She looked up, her eyes brimming with tears.  "Steve, I-I'm sorry, I …"  The tears spilled over.

"Shh," Steve interrupted, putting a finger to her lips.  Then he wiped away the sparkling wet trails that ran down her cheeks.  "It's ok, but you know you shouldn't have done that, don't you?"

She nodded.

"I like you a lot, Sara, but I'm old enough to be your father."

"Age is only a number, Steve," she tried, though deep down she shared his belief that he was much too old for her.

"Maybe for some people, but not for us, Sara.  Experience counts for too much."  Steve wanted to be gentle, but he felt he needed to make his point very firmly, right now, so there was no doubt that they could never be more than friends.  

"I was a war veteran and a cop more than a decade before you were born," he said.  "By the time you came into the world, I had been shot on four separate occasions and beaten to within an inch of my life twice.  When you were in eighth grade, I had a mafia hit out on me.  The hit man almost succeeded, too.  Not long after that, I had a hospital blow up and fall on me.  Between my military service and police work, I have had to shoot and kill more men, a-and a few women," he faltered over the memory of Lynn Conklin even now, "than I can count.  I don't know exactly how many, and I don't ever want to."

"Oh, Steve," she whispered.

"Sara, you deserve an easy life at some point, since you haven't had one with your parents.  Even if we could share more than friendship, you wouldn't get that with me because of my work."

She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek then.

"Sara…" he warned.

"Oh, hush," she tried to sound authoritative even as she continued to sniffle.  "That was just a thank you kiss."

"A thank you for what?" Steve asked, confused.

"For caring enough to stop me when I wanted to do something stupid."  She sighed, wiped away her tears, and smiled.  "I won't pretend I don't have a crush on you," her voice still quavered.

Steve felt his face grow hot.

"And you're even cuter when you blush like that," Sara told him.  "So, you're not helping me get over it very quickly.  I guess you'll just have to accept the fact that I daydream about you at school."

Steve was beginning to lose patience.  "Look, Sara …"

"No, you look."  She interrupted him again, her voice stronger now as she continued her self-analysis, "Except for MinJe, you're the first adult who's taken any interest in me in as long as I can remember.  He's like, well, like what I would want my grandfathers to be, if either of them was still alive, but you, well, you're cute."  She smiled, and when it made her eyes sparkle, Steve knew she was ok.  

"Now, it's perfectly normal for girls like me to have crushes on cute old guys who care about them," Sara continued, "but it's only a crush, and it's not going anywhere, and you'll just have to deal with that."

Steve scratched his cheek with an index finger and stuck his lower lip out in a pout.  "So, you're dumping me," he said.

"It's kind of hard to dump someone you've never dated," Sara told him, "but yeah, I guess I am."

"I see."

"We can still be friends, though," she said brightly.

Steve seemed to give it some thought, then he nodded, "Ok.  Are you gonna finish your fries?"

Sara laughed.  She and Steve had become fast friends, and she had heard that same question twice already this week.  Shoving the plate over, she asked, "Is there anything you won't eat?"

"Mango chutney," Steve said, "and before today, I wouldn't have eaten French fries with mayonnaise."

"Then before today, you have never really lived, my friend."

They ate in silence for several minutes, then Steve sat back and sighed.  It had been a perfect, golden Indian summer day, one of the last of the season, Steve was sure, and the evening was proving just as glorious.

Looking at her watch, Sara said, "We need to get going.  Class starts in ten minutes and you know how Mr. Simon is about being ready to begin on time."

Steve nodded and rolled his eyes as he started gathering up the clutter on the picnic table.  Tuesday night, Melinda and Amy had been about three minutes late, and he had torn them both apart.  

As Steve reached across the table for Sara's empty cup, a chill wind picked up, blowing their plates and napkins all over the courtyard.  

"I've got it," Steve said as he ran after the wayward remnants of their meal.

Sara kept an eye on their instruments and laughed as Steve chased the litter down.  When he followed the last napkin right back to her feet, and stood up, panting, for the briefest moment, he could tell Sara wanted him to kiss her.  Knowing what she wanted made it difficult to turn away, for fear of hurting her feelings, but then she reached up and twirled one of those long blonde locks in that girlish way of hers, and he knew she realized she was just a child.  He did turn away from her then and shoved the last of the trash into the nearby receptacle.  She came over beside him, carrying both their instrument cases, hers by a strap over her shoulder and his in her hand, and slipped her arm through his.

Fairly skipping along beside him as they walked to class, she said, "Guess what?"

"What?"

"Tomorrow's my birthday!  I'll be eighteen."

Steve stopped in his tracks, and Sara, who was still in motion was jerked back against him, nearly knocking them both down, and then they staggered apart.

"Sara . . . "  Steve moved closer to put a gentle hand on her arm.  He thought they had settled this over dinner.

Shoving him away, she said, "Get a grip, will you?  I don't think being a 'woman' . . . "  She marked the quotes in the air with her fingers and in his ears with her sarcastic tone as she had when talking about her family the night they met, "will make me suddenly more desirable to you.  I just wanted you to know because nobody else will care."

She stood before him, beautifully angry, breathing hard, and clearly hurt by his reaction.  The tears started down her cheeks again, and Steve had to wonder just what her home life was like.  

"I'm sorry, Sara.  I misunderstood.  You need to be patient with me.  You're not like any of the other kids your age that I know, and it's going to take a while to figure you out.  I hope by the time I understand you, we are still friends."

She wiped her tears away with the cuff of her sweater and sniffed.  

"I'm sorry, too.  I'm just not used to grownups being nice and caring about me.  I-I'm not used to being able to trust them, and . . . and . . . "

Steve opened his arms to her, and she stepped into his embrace.  As she cried softly against his chest, he dropped a kiss on the top of her head.  When he heard her whimper, "I wish you were my dad," he knew he had been right to shut down her fantasies at her first advance.

Mark watched the lovers' tiff from the window of his second floor classroom.  The young nurses were just arriving, and his lecture would start in a few minutes.  Steve's girl, Mark shuddered at the thought, was carrying two cases, but it was too dark for him to know what they were.  She was clearly angry for a moment, and Mark hoped fervently that she would lose her temper, clobber his son with one of her bags, and end their relationship on the spot.

His heart gave a painful little lurch when he saw the girl step into Steve's open arms, and his stomach gave a sickening flop when he saw Steve kiss the top of her head.  As he turned the rod that closed the blinds, he wished for once that he'd taught his son to be a little less patient and forgiving.


	5. Face the Music

**Chapter Five:  Face the Music**

**(November 8th)**

Stepping out of the shower, Steve couldn't help but grin as he heard the newsman on the radio.  All of the top stories were weather-related, and while he knew there would be serious repercussions to the sudden drop in temperature, he couldn't help but find it amusing.  The weather, usually a boring topic for small talk when there was nothing better to discuss really was the talk of the town today.  

Last night, during class, the jet stream had taken a freak dip deep into Southern California.  High winds had buffeted the classroom building, and even made the lights flicker a few times, leaving the class nervous and subdued.  By the time Steve, Sara, and MinJe had stepped outside, an arctic air mass had swept over LA.  The first burst of cold air had burned their lungs and started Steve worrying about Sara.  She had no coat, and her sweater wasn't nearly warm enough.  When she refused his offer of a ride home, he had insisted on at least having her wait in his truck for her bus.

As he finished toweling off, Steve debated wearing his long underwear, but decided against it.  Jeans would be enough for today, but he had to appear in court on Monday, and if it were this cold then, he'd have to wear his long johns under his suit.  Instead, for today he chose to dress in several layers.  Over his usual t-shirt, he put on a soft blue plaid flannel shirt, and he pulled a cornflower blue sweater that his father had given him last Christmas over that.  His feet had a tendency to get cold, so he put on a thin pair of socks under a pair of regular white gym socks and then his sneakers.  He had a heavy, lined nylon jacket in the closet, and he knew there were gloves and a hat in the pockets, so he figured he'd wear that to work.

He smiled as he thought about how his old friend Jack Stewart, now a doctor at a ski resort in Colorado, would laugh at him for bundling up like he was going on an expedition to Mt. Everest, but Steve had been a Southern California beach boy all his life.  He'd only seen it get down to freezing around here a couple of times since he'd been born.  The cold didn't bother him much when he was hiking or skiing in the mountains; but in the city, the most exercise he got during the day was walking to and from his car, heating systems weren't designed to meet the demands they would face today, and he knew the frigid wind would cut him right to the bone.  

His amused smile sank into a grim frown as he thought back to the previous night.  As he and Sara had waited for the bus in the warmth and security of his truck, they had chatted a little.  Steve had been shocked to find she took the bus from Compton to the college and back every night.  He told her he could drive her home in less than forty-five minutes, but she insisted she preferred the two-and-a-half-hour bus ride.

"By the time I get home," she had said, "my mom will be done screaming at the other kids, and my step-dad will have passed out drunk in front of the TV while watching wrestling or some stupid 'reality' show.  I'll study for my chemistry test on the bus.  Then, when I get home, all I'll have to do is change the baby's diaper to shut him up.  After that, I can start my calculus homework, outline the chapter for history, and finish writing my term paper."

"Sara, if you let me drive you home, you'll at least have more time for homework."

She had laughed bitterly at him.  "You grew up in a 'nice' family didn't you?"

Steve knew a rhetorical question when he heard one, so he had waited for her to continue.

"If I get home before midnight," she'd said, softly, "I'll just have more time to listen to everybody yell and fight, and maybe I'll get to watch my step-dad beat up my mom if he isn't too drunk to get out of the recliner by the time he completely loses his temper."

Her voice was so desolate, so matter of fact, Steve had wanted to cry for her.

"Sara . . ."

"There's my bus," she'd interrupted him.  Scooting over to kiss his cheek, she then slipped out of the warm truck cab and scurried across the street to the bus stop.  Steve watched as she dropped her money into the receptacle and took a seat away from the doors on the side facing him.  She smiled brightly and waved at him, but as she turned round in her seat, Steve saw the smile disappear, and she wiped away a tear.

As his mind drifted back to getting ready for work, Steve noticed the message light on his answering machine blinking, and, hitting the playback button he heard, "Steve?  It's Dad.  I just wanted to let you know I spent the night at the hospital.  The ER was busy because of the sudden change in weather, and by the time I was done helping out, I was too tired to drive home.  Dress warmly today, and drive carefully.  Believe it or not, the roads are actually icy in some places."

Steve frowned.  His father's voice sounded strained.  Typically, when extra help was needed at the hospital, his dad would volunteer, and while Steve couldn't fault him for being willing to help, he often worried that his father was pushing himself too hard.  It was a family trait, apparently, Steve realized, as he suddenly recalled several occasions when his father had expressed the same concerns about him.

"Here's an interesting byproduct of the cold, Rick," a woman's voice on the radio cut across Steve's thoughts.  "There were fewer crimes reported in LA last night than in any twelve hour period over the last fifteen years."

Steve smiled.  Only a cop knew how meaningless those figures really were.  An overnight drop in crime just meant he might have a couple hours to work on his backlog of paperwork.  As soon as this cold spell broke, things would go back to normal, or worse, if the cold lasted more than a few days and some of the more unstable people out there went stir crazy.  Sighing, he slipped on his jacket, hat, and gloves and headed out to his truck.

Rick's deep voice replied cheerfully, "I guess even the crooks were too cold to go out last night.  It could be a pretty peaceful week for the police if this weather keeps up."

Mark smiled, then smiled even wider, then frowned as the banter on the radio in the doctors' lounge made him think of his son.  The initial smile was the same one he always got when he thought how lucky he was to have a son like Steve.  The wider smile was happy and hopeful that the two radio personalities were right and the police would have an easy week.  Anything that caused a drop in the crime rate made his son safer, and that made Mark happy.  The frown came when he remembered why he was here and not just waking up in his own bed at home.

He was still furious with Steve.  Mark poured himself a cup of coffee and staggered over to the table in the lounge as he remembered last night.  

After the aspiring nurses had left, he'd lingered in the classroom and watched from the window as Steve and the girl--God, she was so young!--sat and talked in his truck.  He wasn't really meaning to spy, but he couldn't figure out why they were just sitting there.  Then the bus came, and he saw her slide across the seat, kiss Steve, and then scurry to the bus.  It had been bad enough to know his son was . . . with a mere child, but to know Steve wouldn't even drive her home had made the whole disgusting episode seem cheap and tawdry as well, and Mark had seen red.

Some of Mark's coffee splashed from the cup as he set it clumsily on the table and sat down.  He slid the bottom of his mug through the puddle and started making ring patterns on a napkin as he continued to mull over the situation.

A part of his mind had insisted there must to be another explanation to Steve's behavior, and knowing how angry he was, he had decided to go to the hospital until he calmed down.  He needed to talk to Steve, to find out just what in the hell he thought he was doing with that little girl, and he couldn't do that until he controlled his rage.  As cold as it was, the ER was seeing a lot of patients suffering from frostbite, hypothermia, and other exposure problems, and he had been busy through the night.  Many of the patients he had seen were homeless and had been ill prepared for the sudden cold snap.

He hoped Steve dressed warmly this frigid morning, and his jaw clenched as his ire rose.  He took a swallow of his coffee and made a face.  Strong as battery acid and black as sin, it was guaranteed to wake you up if it didn't kill you first.

He hadn't had the chance to speak to Jesse at all last night because they'd been so busy.  Besides the exposure patients, there had been several bad wrecks caused by black ice on the roads, something many people in Los Angeles had never encountered before, and the younger doctor had been busy all night in the trauma suites and OR.  

He sure hoped Steve drove carefully.  Again, his temper flared, and as he stirred some sugar into his cup to make the drink more palatable, he splashed more of the liquid out.  It was bad enough that Steve was old enough to be her father, but the way he was sneaking around made it positively indecent.  It indicated to Mark that Steve had no doubt what he was doing was wrong, and he knew his father and friends would disapprove, but far from being discouraged, he had simply chosen to be very clever about hiding his activities.

Mark sighed a tired sigh and went over to the coffee pot to pour himself another cup.  By three in the morning, things in the ER had settled down.  Jesse still had four hours to go on his shift, and Mark had been too tired to drive home.  He hadn't felt up to confronting Steve either, so he had decided to get a few hours' sleep in his office before changing into the spare clothes he kept there and starting his rounds.  Now the coffee was kicking in--What did Steve call it?  Plasma with cream and sugar?--and he was almost ready to face another day.

"Hey, Mark, what are you still doing here?"

"Oh, hi Jess.  I spent the night in my office.  Too tired to drive."

"Mark, you know you shouldn't have done that.  Steve will be worried.  You could have called a cab."

Mark bit his tongue to keep from exploding and telling Jesse all the reasons he just didn't much care if Steve would be worried right now.  "I called him half an hour ago.  He must have been in the shower, but I left a message.  Did you call Bob's and ask for him last night?"

"Yeah, and he was out.  I was thinking I'd go meet him for lunch at the precinct.  At least there, if he gets mad at me for asking questions he won't be able to hurt me.  Too many cops around."

For once, the young man's infectious good humor did not infect Mark.  He just gave Jesse a shuttered look and said, "Ok.  Let me know what you find out."

"Ladies and gentlemen, please, be very careful when you're driving today," the DJ's deep satiny voice said, and Mark again hoped Steve would be cautious. 

"There were several serious accidents over night caused by ice on the roads, and since it's not likely to warm up much today, the roads will probably still be dangerous."

"Tell me about it, Rick," the woman said.  "I spent about six years in North Dakota, and man, when you hit a patch of black ice doing sixty, you are completely at its mercy."

Steve switched off the radio in his truck and headed into Mr. Downing's shop.  Last night Sara and MinJe had convinced him that he was already good enough to have the man return his mother's violin, and now he was itching to get it back.  He walked straight to the counter and rang the small silver bell there.  When Mr. Downing came out, he looked surprised to see him.

"Can I help you?" the old man asked coolly.

"I want my mother's violin back," Steve said.  "Is it ready?"

"It is," Downing said laughingly, "but you're not."

Steve put the rented violin up on the counter, opened the case, and said, "Listen."

He was a little nervous, playing for the first time in front of someone outside of the class, but on the drive from the house, he had made up his mind that he was going to get his mother's violin back today, whether Downing was satisfied with his playing or not.  Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he drew the bow across the strings.

Steve smiled as the music floated from the strings.  It was as magical now as it had been the first time he tried to play in class.  Then, he had just played single unconnected notes and had thought that was music.  Now, he knew better, and he played better, but he was still amazed every time the glorious sounds arose from his instrument.

He played 'Silent Night' and 'We Three Kings' then slipped into the 'gloria' section of 'Angels We Have Heard on High' that he had worked so hard on last night.  When he finished, he opened his eyes and found Downing staring at him, openmouthed and wide-eyed.

"Well?"

Downing blinked twice then said, "Do you have a few minutes?"

Steve looked at his watch.  He had to be to work in forty-five minutes.  He nodded.  "I can stick around for about half an hour.  Will it be ready by then?"

Downing nodded.  "Yes.  Yes, it will be.  I-I have someone I would like you to play for if you don't mind."

Steve thought about it and shrugged.  If he could get his mother's violin back sooner by humoring the old man, he'd be glad to do it.  "As long as I'm not late for work."

Downing scurried off, and Steve took advantage of the time to practice.  He played through 'Angels We Have Heard on High' once more, losing himself in the melody, then went into 'The First Noel,' which was a little rough.  Still, he knew it wasn't bad considering he'd only started practicing it two days ago.  He had no idea how long he'd been playing when, as he took a moment between songs to decide what he'd play next, another violin broke into the silence.

He lowered his bow and instrument and was about to turn when a soft voice commanded, "No.  Play it back to me."

Steve smiled.  He and Sara had played this game a few times, a bit like 'Dueling Banjos', and he had always won.  It frustrated Sara no end, but she still always begged to play again, because trying to keep up with him helped improve her playing.

He played the simple melody back, and the woman's voice said, "Try this."

She played a longer string of notes, and Steve played them back effortlessly.

"Oh, good.  Very good," the voice said warmly, "Now this."

Several times, they went back and forth, and gradually, she challenged him.  Steve was focusing hard, now, almost mesmerized by the notes the mysterious woman behind him played.  She finished, and he raised his instrument and bow to imitate her, but the jangling of the bell as another customer entered the store shattered his concentration.

"I can't," he said, lowering the violin and shaking his head.  He turned to see the woman who had been testing his skill and found a lovely lady around his own age smiling at him as if she had found a long lost treasure.

"Thomas tells me you're Catherine Meehan's son."

Steve took in the round face, pleasant smile, short blond hair, and dark eyes.  She was wearing dark red leggings and an oversized green chenille sweater with a design of Christmas tree ornaments decorating it.

"I always knew her as Catherine Sloan," Steve said, "but yes, Meehan was her maiden name."

"Then you must be Stevie," the woman said extending her hand, and Steve blushed at the childhood nickname.

"It's Steve, now," he said, and, shaking the offered hand, added, "and I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage."

"I'm so sorry," the woman laughed and blushed a little herself.  "Where are my manners?  I am Rachel Wood, and my mom used to play at the Phil with Catherine.  They were quite good friends until she quit, and I recollect when she would bring you round to our house on a visit now and again."

"I-I'm sorry," Steve said taken aback.  "I don't recall."

"Oh, you wouldn't," Rachel chuckled, and explained, "You were still in diapers when my father packed us all off to Boston for a position with the symphony.  But I was just a couple years older than you, and I remember.  Mom took some time off to raise her children, but then, when Arthur Fiedler started the Boston Pops Orchestra, she was invited to be one of the founding members."

Before Steve could think of a suitable reply, a soft 'Ahem' interrupted their conversation.  

Steve turned to see his mother's violin on the counter, shining reddish-gold, like satin, and as he stood and admired it, Rachel came up beside him and said softly, "You should play it."

He caught his breath and glanced over his shoulder at her, then he handed his rented instrument to Mr. Downing and gingerly picked up the family heirloom.  He stared at it, mesmerized, for several moments, then said, "It has different strings."

Mr. Downing nodded.  "The kind of strings you use make a difference in the sound.  In time, you may want to switch to gut-core strings, but for now, I think you will find these add a richness and nuance that your playing was lacking before."

Steve nodded and asked Rachel, "What should I play?"

She smiled and said, "Anything you want."

Steve nodded again, and as he went to place his fingers on the fingerboard, he said, somewhat disconcerted, "It doesn't have any dots."

Rachel laughed at him, and he smiled at the melodic sound, "You don't need them."

"How will I know where to put my fingers?"

"Close your eyes.  You were playing with your eyes closed when I walked in, and you knew just where to place your fingers."

Steve closed his eyes and stood up straight.  He gripped the neck of the violin and placed his fingers on the strings to begin 'Angels We Have Heard on High' yet again, but he was unsatisfied and had to adjust his grip.  He really missed the dots.  Once he got started, he knew he would be fine, but he needed the dots as a reference point to start him off.  He shook his head and adjusted his grip once more.

He was beginning to feel as nervous as he had the first night of class, and he kept shifting his grip on the strings.  Not able to get comfortable with this new instrument, he opened his eyes to check the placement of his fingers, and started slightly when he heard Rachel's voice close beside him say, "Stop it."

He sighed in frustration.

Very softly, she told him, "Close your eyes, and hear the music in your head.  You've played it before, and you can do so again."

Following her instructions, he stood for several moments bobbing his head and mouthing the words, then, when he was in the middle of the tune, he pulled the bow across the strings, and a rich, vibrant melody drifted from the violin.  Steve played the tune through to the end, and as the last notes drifted free of the strings and the bow, he felt something new come alive in his soul.  He couldn't imagine how he had gone his whole life without making music, and he ached to learn more, right now.

"It sounds so different," he whispered, staring at the instrument as if it had suddenly come alive in his hands.

"Like Thomas said," Rachel explained, "the strings make a difference."

"Play something for me to play back," Steve said.

"No," Rachel said, "I don't think so."

"Please!"  Steve winced as he heard the begging tone in his own voice.

Rachel laughed musically at him again, and said, "No, Steve.  You should make your own music, not imitate someone else."  She smiled then and said, "I think you _need_ to make your own music."

He simply nodded.  She had seen it in him before he had recognized it himself, but it was undoubtedly there, the need to create art.

She handed him a business card and said, "Give me a call, and I will teach you."

As he reached out to accept the card, he glanced at his watch and panicked.  He was already fifteen minutes late for work.  Hurriedly, he loosened his bow and placed the violin in its case, then he slipped Rachel's card into the pocket in the lid.

"I will call you," he said as he rushed out the door, "tonight!"

"Sloan here," Steve answered his phone before the first ring was finished and shifted stiffly in his seat.  He'd slipped as he was leaving Mr. Downing's shop, and went down hard on the seat of his pants, cradling the violin close to his chest to protect it.  When he got to the truck, he quickly tucked the violin away under the seat, knowing that he'd soon have to find a better place to hide it, and then he drove to work as quickly as he could safely manage.  

By the time he got to work, his bruised behind was throbbing.  It hadn't helped any that he was then forced to sit in the hard wooden chair in Captain Newman's office and get chewed out for a quarter of an hour for being late to his shift.  By the time he was actually able to take some aspirin for the pain, he was limping, and was forty-five minutes late starting his work.

"Hey, Steve.  It's Jesse."  

"Oh, hi, Jess.  I hate to ask this but can I call you later?  I . . .uh . . . I was late to work, and Newman will chew my butt off _As much as it hurts, that might not be a bad thing _if he catches me taking personal calls on police time today."

"Why were you late?"  Jesse asked.

"I, ah, well . . .I'd rather not say."  Steve was hoping to keep his new talent a secret from everyone until Christmas Eve.

"Steve, is everything ok?"  Jesse asked, now genuinely concerned, and Steve immediately felt bad.  He hated to worry his friend, but he didn't want to tell him about the violin yet.  He couldn't think of a good explanation, so he settled for a lame excuse.

"Look, Jess, I just sort of overslept.  I woke up on time, but the house was cold and I really didn't want to get out of bed.  I must have drifted off again, and I was late."

Jesse laughed, "I'll bet Newman tore you apart for that one." 

Steve sighed, relieved that his friend found his explanation plausible.  "Yeah, and he will again if he catches me on a personal call after coming in half an hour late.  So, why did you call?"

"I thought maybe we could have lunch at noon.  I needed to talk to you about something."

"Mmmm . . . " Steve thought it over, "Today's not really a good day.  Are you coming out to the beach house this weekend?"

"Yeah," Jesse replied, his tone a little cold, "but I thought you might prefer to discuss this privately."

Steve was troubled by Jesse's words.  What did they have to discuss that required privacy?

"Jess?  What's up?"

"I was just wondering why you're skipping your shifts at Bob's is all."

"Oh, ummm, look, why don't we meet at Zeno's, say, around noon?"

At a deli a few blocks from the precinct, Steve slipped into the booth across from Jesse and took off his hat and gloves.  "I don't know if I've ever seen it so cold in LA," he said.

Jesse smiled and said, "Yeah, tell me about it.  I thought I left this kind of weather back in Illinois.  It's definitely a soup day."

The two friends ordered their meals and chatted a while before Jesse got down to business.  Then, he took matters in hand and very bluntly questioned his friend.

"Steve," he said, "I called Bob's for takeout on my meal break last night, and when I asked for you, Kerry tried to make excuses for a while, then she finally told me you were out and she was covering for you.  I'd like to know why, Steve, and why did you ask her to keep it a secret?"

"First of all, Jess, I wasn't gone the whole shift," Steve tried to explain.  "I was there early, and I was back in time to close and count the receipts for the night.  We had a good night because the new Jack Blood movie was opening at the Cineplex."

Jesse refused to be lured away from the topic at hand and said, "That's great, Steve.  It must have been a busy night, but why weren't you there?  I mean, if you have other things you need to do, we can always work something out between us and Alicia, but you know when Alicia's off, one of us really needs to be there, in case there's a problem the wait staff can't handle."

"I know, Jess, but that doesn't happen all that often, and, well, I just needed a few hours to myself," Steve said, squirming uncomfortably in his seat and then grimacing as the motion reminded him painfully of his sore posterior.

"Steve," Jesse said, "I've been asking a few questions, and I've come to find out it's been a few hours every night this week.  Is there something wrong?  Do we need to hire another manager?"

Anxious to protect his Christmas surprise, Steve sat in mutinous silence for several minutes.  He was a grown man, why was Jesse checking up on him?  Finally, instead of answering, he countered with a defensive question.

"What's with the third degree, Jess?  Do you think maybe I'm not pulling my fair share at the restaurant?"

Jesse took a deep breath, willing himself to remain patient.  "No, Steve, you know better than that.  I'm just concerned, is all.  If it were only a night or two, and you hadn't lied to me," Jesse gave him an accusing glare, "I might believe your excuse, but every night for a week tells me there's something going on.  Your dad's worried, too."

"Dad knows?"

Jesse nodded and said, "And he's been missing you lately.  Have you been especially busy between work and the restaurant?"

Steve shrugged.  Unwilling to tell the truth and unable to contrive a convincing lie, he was reluctant to answer.

Taking Steve's silence to mean he needed more coaxing to make him talk, Jesse added, "Amanda thinks you're in love."

Steve thought about it.  In a way, he was.  In the past week, he had found a whole new side of himself, a part of his personality he was excited to explore.  When he was making music, his eternal restlessness melted away.  The horror and tragedy of his job and the lingering sadness it sometimes left with him faded and dissolved.  The stress, anger, and frustration, of dealing with senseless, needless death all day just disappeared, and the first notes to drift from his strings always shattered any foul mood he might have.  He was becoming a different man in some ways, intensely focused, but calmer and more at peace than he could ever remember being, and he liked the person he was getting to know through his music.

Then, this morning, when he'd played his mother's violin for the first time, he caught just a glimpse of what he could be, and he had wanted more, then and there.  He knew there was no way to explain all of this to Jesse, so he settled for the convenient excuse.

He nodded.  "Maybe I am," was all he said.  Jesse did not need to know that he was in love with making music.

Jesse grinned and reached across the table to give him an affectionate jab in the shoulder.  "So, come on, give it up.  Who is she?  Where'd you meet?  What's she like?  Is she the reason you've been ditching your shifts at Bob's?"

Steve just smiled and shook his head, "Not yet, Jess.  I'm not sure how serious this is, where it's going, or how long it's going to last, but yes, it is the reason I've not been working at Bob's.  Just, well, tell Dad I'm ok and he doesn't need to worry about me.  I'll be late getting home tonight, but I'll see him this weekend, ok?"

Jesse eyed his friend.  Steve was withholding something important.  Still, seeing how happy he was, Jesse was reluctant to press for more information.  Steve would share when he was ready, but until then, Jesse was content to let him enjoy his new romance. 

Ignoring Jesse's incredulous look, Steve continued talking.  "And make sure Dad takes his breaks today, would you?  He called this morning to tell me he'd spent the night at the hospital.  I don't like the idea of him working so hard."

Hearing nothing he could question in Steve statements, Jesse just nodded.  "Ok, I'll do that."  Looking at his watch, he added, "And you better get back to work before Newman tears into you again."

Steve looked at his own watch, made a worried face, shook hands, said goodbye, and, thinking he had satisfied Jesse's curiosity, left his friend to finish his lunch alone.

Mark sat poking at something on his tray in the hospital cafeteria.  The casual observer might have thought he simply found the food unpalatable, but those who knew him well could tell that he also had something serious on his mind.  He started slightly as the fork was pulled from his hand and tray was removed unexpectedly, but had to admit he was glad to see it go.  Then he smiled as a spoon replaced the fork and a tub of some ambrosial scented concoction of tender fresh vegetables and chunks of prime roasted beef was placed before him.

"Eat," Jesse's voice commanded.  "Steve is fine.  We had lunch at Zeno's Deli, and I know how you love their vegetable beef soup.  Today is a definite soup day, so I brought you some."

"So," Mark asked, "what's going on with him?"

"Eat," Jesse said again, "and I'll tell you."

Though he still had no appetite, Mark swallowed a spoonful of soup and tried to look appreciative.  Jesse sat across from him and watched as he took several more bites.  When he was satisfied that Mark was enjoying his treat, he began to speak.

"Steve is fine," Jesse said.  "Amanda was right.  He's in love."

"How can you be sure?"  Mark asked, hoping desperately to find another explanation for the behavior he had witnessed the night before.

"He told me so," Jesse replied, grinning and oblivious to his friend's distress.

"Oh, no."  Mark pushed the soup away.  "Oh, no, no, no."  He got up and left the table.  

After a surprised moment, Jesse put the lid on the soup and went scrambling after him.  Catching up with him, he asked, "Mark, what's wrong?  I thought you'd be happy that Steve has found someone."

"Under normal circumstances, yes," Mark said, jabbing at the elevator button when he got to it, "but not this time."

Jesse stepped inside, and since several nurses coming off break already occupied the elevator, he had to stop the conversation for a moment.  When the elevator arrived at the floor for Mark's office, he and Jesse got off.

"Dr. Sloan, I need some help with . . . "

"Not now, Alex," Mark cut him off, uncharacteristically rude and left the young man staring at him as he stormed down the hall.

"Why not this time, Mark?  Why aren't you happy for Steve?"  Jesse demanded.  He had to stop and come back a step when Mark stopped short and turned to answer him.

The hall was quiet, and though Mark and Jesse kept their voices low, Alex could hear their every word as he pretended to study the chart in his hands.  He wasn't really eavesdropping, he told himself.  He was just concerned about his friends.

"I saw them together, Jesse, last night when I went to lecture to that nursing class."

"Oh," Jesse was still confused, "Them?  Who?"

"Steve and his . . . girlfriend," Mark hissed.

"Oh, well, did she seem nice?"

"Oh, she seemed lovely," Mark said sarcastically, "beautiful, too, and much too young for him."

"Mark, I'm surprised at you," Jesse said.  "I never would have imagined a few years would make such a difference to you."

"I'm not talking about a few years, Jess."  Mark was growing angrier by the moment.  "I'm talking about twenty-five, maybe thirty years difference.  I doubt she's out of high school yet."

"Look, Mark . . . "

Mark spun away and stalked off to his office.  Surprised to find himself talking to empty air, Jesse scrambled to catch up again.

Alex grinned and turned back to the nurse's desk.  _That sly old dog._  He knew women found Steve Sloan extremely attractive, and while he'd never had much luck with relationships, it wasn't for lack of opportunity.  Even so, Alex had to wonder just what kind of mojo the man had to attract a girl young enough to be his daughter.

Following Mark into his office, Jesse said, "Maybe she just looks young, Mark."

"No, Jess, she is young, much too young for Steve."

"How do you know?"  Jesse moved over to the small refrigerator Mark kept in his office and slipped the soup inside.  _No sense letting it go to waste._

"I just knew, Jesse," Mark insisted.  "She had that look about her, a little awkward, clumsy, like her hands and feet were too big for the rest of her.  She wasn't sure where to put them to keep them out of the way.  She's just a girl, Jesse, and my son has no business . . . being with her."

Jesse nodded seriously as his friend and mentor moved about his office, apparently packing up for the day.  

"Mark, are you sure she's the one he's in love with?  Maybe she's his girlfriend's daughter or a kid he knows from the Never Say Die Gym."

Mark shook his head and snorted.  "No, trust me Jess, this was his girlfriend."

"How can you be sure?"

Mark stopped dead still and looked right through Jesse, remembering those dreadful moments from last night.  "He was letting her feed him, Jess, at one of the picnic tables in the courtyard.  Then she kissed him.  Really kissed him," Mark emphasized before Jesse could argue that Mark might have simply misinterpreted a simple gesture of friendly affection.  "They walked into the building arm in arm.  He stood on the sidewalk, hugging and kissing her as they made up after an argument."

"Oh, he is smitten, then."  Jesse knew how his friend was about public displays of affection, and there was no way he would be so open with a woman in full view of others unless he had completely lost himself to her.

"Then, he . . . " Mark paused, almost too disgusted to tell the rest, "he sat with her in his truck and waited for the bus to come.  He wouldn't even drive her home, probably because her parents would not approve."

Mark yanked his closet open and pulled out his jacket.  Without so much as saying goodbye, he walked out of his office, jamming his arms into the sleeves of the coat and headed back to the elevator.

"Mark," Jesse said, worried and hurrying to keep up, "where are you going?"

"I am going down to the precinct to speak to my son and put a stop to this ill-considered affair."

"I don't think that's a good idea, Mark."

"What, you think I should ignore this?  You think I should just let him . . . seduce that child?"

"No, but . . . "

"But what, Jesse?"  Mark snapped.  "You can't possibly think their relationship is healthy.  You can't believe I should allow it to continue."

When he grabbed the older doctor by the collar of his coat and shoved him into the stairwell, Jesse knew he was shattering the limits of his student-mentor relationship with Mark Sloan.  He knew he was going beyond the bounds of friendship, too, but, hell, he was practically family, and that had to count for more.  He'd been invited to spend every Thanksgiving, Christmas, and birthday with the Sloans since he'd first met them, and he had usually accepted the invitation.  They'd both saved his life more than once, and he had returned the favor a few times.  If anyone dared take Mark aside and lecture him in his present state, it was Jesse.

"Let me go, Jess," Mark insisted, his fury rising.

Jesse pushed him against the wall, firmly enough to keep him in place, but careful not to injure the older man.

"I will let you go once you have heard me out.  Will you listen?"

Mark glowered, but he nodded, and Jesse let go of his coat, relieved that his friend was at least willing to listen.

"First of all, no, I don't think their relationship should be allowed to continue, if she is as young as you seem to think, Mark."

"Fine, then, let me go."

As Mark turned to head down the stairs, Jesse grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back against the wall.

"Jesse . . . " he said in a warning tone.

"Mark, you agreed to hear me out."  Jesse waited a moment, and when his friend showed no further resistance, he continued.  "I don't think their relationship should be allowed to continue," he repeated, "but I'm not sure you need to go charging off to the station and issuing ultimatums to end it."

"You think I should just wait for him to get tired of her?"  Mark asked.  "Jesse, I can't do that.  This has to end now, before my son does something he will regret for the rest of his life."

"Mark, Steve is a decent, honorable man," Jesse said.  "You should know that because you raised him.  A romance with a teenage girl is totally out of character for him.  What if there's something wrong, something below the surface?"

"Jesse, what are you suggesting?"

"Steve's had a hell of a rough year, Mark," Jesse explained, trying hard to reason things through in his own mind as he explained for his friend.  "You know he still feels guilty about Carol because he didn't realize she was in trouble when she called you at the party."

Mark swallowed hard and nodded, the mere mention of his daughter's name still brought the pain back fresh.  "I've tried to get him to talk about it, but you know how he is.  I even suggested grief counseling when he refused to talk to me, and that went over like a lead balloon."

Jesse smiled slightly, imagining his friend's reaction to such a suggestion.

"When Ellen left at the last minute for that job in Chicago, Mark, he tried so hard to hide how much it hurt, but you know it had to destroy him."

"What are you suggesting, Jesse?  Do you think this is some kind of rebound relationship, some payback, showing Ellen he can get it when he wants it and he doesn't need her?"  Mark looked genuinely shocked at the idea, and Jesse didn't blame him.  Ellen had practically torn Steve's heart out and stomped on it, but that sort of vindictiveness was atypical for Steve under any circumstances.

Jesse shook his head, "No, Mark, I think it might go a lot further than that.  The holidays can be a very lonely time for some people."

Mark snorted in disbelief.  His son had too many friends to ever be lonely.  Before he could protest, Jesse overrode him.

"Think about it, Mark.  In the past year, he's lost his sister and his fiancée left him literally standing at the altar."

Mark shuddered at the memories.  Steve had been wracked with guilt over Carol's death, certain that he should have been able to help her.  It hadn't mattered to him that she had been miles away when she called and that the cell phone reception was bad.  It hadn't mattered that there was no way he could have gotten to her in time if he had realized the danger she was in.  He was her big brother, and he should have known she needed him.  Almost as bad as losing his sister was the pain he felt knowing that he would never have the opportunity to grant his father's wish to someday see them become friends.  It had taken Steve months to work through the guilt, but he would probably never get over the loss.

Then, just as Steve was beginning let himself feel things again, just about the time he had started smiling and joking like he'd done before Carol's death, Ellen Sharp had waltzed back into his life.  The two had bickered like the proverbial old married couple from the moment they had met, but Steve seemed to enjoy the ceaseless teasing and squabbling, and Ellen's constant pestering seemed to draw him out of his shell a little after Carol's death.  Though Mark had his reservations, and despite the fact that he couldn't recall quarreling with Catherine the way his son did with his young lady, he had given them his blessing and said a prayer for their happiness.

When Ellen called him from the airport on their wedding day to tell him she had decided to go to Chicago after all, Steve had tried so hard to put on a brave face, and had even insisted that the reception party go on as planned, but that night, Mark had heard him sobbing in his downstairs apartment.  Mark had gone to his son, and for the next hour, Steve had alternated between calling Ellen filthy names, wondering what was wrong with him, and pleading with his father for an explanation as to why she had run off.  When Mark had no suitable excuse at the ready, Steve had eventually cried himself to sleep.

"He's over forty and still single, Mark," Jesse continued to explain, his thoughts becoming clearer as he talked, and making him more and more concerned about his friend.  "Most of his friends and colleagues are married with children now, and some even have grandkids.  I'll bet two or three people have already asked him to cover for them on Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and New Year's precisely because he doesn't have anyone right now."

"He has us," Mark insisted hotly.

Jesse smiled sadly and said, "Of course he does, and he always will, but that's not the same as having . . . someone, is it?"

Mark sighed, frowned, and shook his head.  "No, I suppose not.  So, what do we do?"

Not at all sure he wanted to follow through with the suggestion, Jesse said, "Let me talk to him.  I'm coming out to the beach house tomorrow, and if you can make yourself scarce for a little while, I see if I can't get him to open up about what he's feeling.  Maybe, if he'll just talk to me, I can help him see the mistake he's making.  If he can just face the music and accept that it's inappropriate, I am sure I can and get him to stop it."

Mark was thoughtful for a moment, then he nodded.  "Ok," he said, "but if you don't resolve this tomorrow, I'm going to talk to him.  I will not let this . . . relationship . . . continue." 


	6. The Music Stopped

**Chapter Six:  The Music Stopped**

**(November 8th & 9th)**

Steve checked his watch.  He had just enough time to stop by Amanda's lab before he went to Bob's and then on to practice and class.  He wanted to tell her how the Porter case had turned out.  Thanks to Amanda's work, Agnes Porter's story had completely unraveled, and she had eagerly accepted the DA's plea bargain offer of life in prison to avoid the death penalty.  Steve was always pleased to have a case wrapped up so neatly that he didn't even have to appear in court, and he wanted to thank Amanda properly.  The holidays, and his progress with the violin, had him in a good mood despite the pain in his backside, and he was feeling generous, so on the way to the lab, he stopped at the hospital gift shop and paid the outrageous $3.50 price for a single rose to present her as a thank you gift.

Suddenly remembering it was Sara's birthday, Steve debated whether to get her a gift.  She was so plainly attracted to him, he was half afraid to even acknowledge her special day for fear of encouraging her, but then again, she had plainly stated that she knew her crush would never amount to anything, and somehow he doubted anyone else would remember her birthday.  After hunting through the selection of stuffed toys for about ten minutes, he found a musical teddy bear playing, of all things, a violin.  When he wound it up, he was surprised to find it played Happy Birthday.  It was so perfect he had to buy it.  He thought it was an odd thing to have in a hospital gift shop, but he supposed sometimes people did end up in the hospital on their birthdays, and a distraught family member might at the last moment suddenly remember and not want the occasion to go unnoticed.

As he left the gift shop, Steve's mind was awhirl with a half dozen thoughts.  He had to wonder why a usually stable and sensible man such as himself could be moved to spend a fortune on flowers and a toy at the hospital gift shop when he'd passed at least half a dozen gift and flower shops on the way from the precinct.  Then he thought about Frank Porter's children and wondered how they would mark the upcoming holidays.  He frowned as he worried over Sara's long bus ride home, and decided that if she didn't have a proper coat tonight he would insist on driving her home himself.  Next, he remembered Rachel Wood's card, and decided he'd wait to call her on the weekend.  He wanted to talk to Sara and MinJe first.  He hated to simply abandon them, especially Sara, now that he had found a private teacher, but he also wanted to learn as much as he could as fast as he could, and he didn't think Cole Simon could teach him enough.

"Hey, Steve," Alex greeted him, "I heard you caught yourself a woman!"

Steve, his train of thought running simultaneously down several different tracks, didn't hear the slightly lecherous tone behind the congratulatory note in the young man's voice, and naturally assumed Alex was referring to the recently closed Porter homicide.  He murmured his thanks, and continued on his way to the path lab as the young man fell into step beside him.

"So, how do you do it?"

Steve shrugged modestly and said, "Same way I always do, Alex.  Watch for clues, gather evidence, and when I'm ready, I move in."

Shocked that his friend seemed so unmoved by his latest conquest, particularly because his involvement with her had created such a rift with his dad, all Alex could find to say as their paths diverged and he headed off to the ER was, "Ok, I'll see you later."

Steve muttered a goodbye, still distracted by the thoughts running through his head, and walked down to the path lab.

"Hey, Jesse," Alex said, walking into the ER.  "I was just talking to Steve about his new girlfriend, and you won't believe what he told me . . . "

After giving Amanda her rose and the details of Agnes Porter's confession, Steve headed off to Bob's.  Kerry was there when he walked in, and she looked profoundly apologetic.

"Don't worry about it," he told her when she explained to him how Jesse had gotten her to confess he wasn't there.  "I shouldn't have put you in that position to begin with.  Now he knows, so you don't have to keep it a secret if he calls again."

After making sure the kitchen was well stocked for the night, he loaded a take-out box with specialties from Bob's for himself, Sara, and MinJe, and headed off to practice.

"It's not like we'll never see each other again," Steve tried to console Sara after he'd told her and MinJe of Rachel Wood's offer to give him private lessons.  He'd made the mistake of mentioning it over the takeout dinner from Bob's and Sara had left her plate largely untouched.  "I'm still going to need somewhere to practice, and I can't get my money back from the college now that the class has started.  I figured I'd at least take advantage of the practice time I paid for."

"So you're just going to come by and practice, then take off and leave us alone with the Mole, huh?"  Sara pouted.

"Sara," MinJe said gently, "the first night of class you knew Steve was very talented.  Now that he has discovered that for himself, he should have a teacher who can help him make the most of his abilities.  Mr. Simon cannot do that.  You should be happy for Steve, not selfishly sad for yourself.  You know, this would be great with kim chee," he added as an after thought, grinning at Steve and holding up his plateful barbecue. 

"Oh, Steve," Sara said dramatically, throwing her arms around his neck, "I'm going to miss you."

"Sara, honey," Steve said laughing slightly and holding her at arm's length, "you've only known me a week."

"It's been long enough to know you're nice to me," she murmured, "Please don't go."

"I'll be here Monday at six thirty to practice with you, just like I have all this week," he promised, "but, Sara, I've discovered something about myself that I never knew was there before, and I have to explore it.  You've been able to make music all your life, but this is new to me, and I really want to be good at it.  I can't do that in this class.  Please try to understand."

Sara wiped her nose on the sleeve of her too-thin jacket, and Steve decided then and there that he would drive her home that night whether she wanted him to or not.

"I understand," she sniffled, "but that doesn't mean I'm happy about it!"  

Shrugging, Steve said, "I guess that will have to do.  I'm sorry, Sara, but I need to do this."

The three of them headed to class, then, Steve limping slightly because the muscles in his sore back end had stiffened up while he sat in the practice room.  As they approached the building, Steve reached into his pocket, and felt the plush little bear he had bought for Sara at the hospital gift shop.  Taking Sara by the hand, he stopped her and had her close her eyes.  Then he wound up the little toy and presented it to her.  When she first heard the music, her eyes popped open wide and she reached out and grabbed it away from him.

For a moment, she just held it, smiling softly then she looked at him and grinned, saying, "Steve, it's perfect.  Thank you."

She gave him a hug round the neck and a kiss on the cheek, then put the little bear in the outer pocket of her backpack so he could peek out and watch the world go by, and, taking Steve's hand and MinJe's, dragged them along behind her as she went into class.

"Sara, slow down," Steve pleaded, his sore behind making him drag his feet.

"But I want to show Amy before class starts!"  She explained her enthusiasm.  "She said you wouldn't remember."

The fact that Sara needed to prove their twelve-year-old classmate wrong reminded Steve of just how young she was, and made him feel terribly old.  The fact that she was so excited by his small gift, reminded him of how just how desperately she needed someone to care about her, and it made him feel terribly sad.  Unwilling to deflate her mood even one little bit, he just nodded and hurried along, gritting his teeth against the pain emanating from his sore hip.

"I don't _want_ you to drive me home," Sara protested as Steve blocked her from leaving the classroom.  He was determined that he would drive her home so she would get there at a reasonable hour and not have to walk from the bus stop to her house in the cold, and now, the freezing rain that had started while they were in class.

"Sara," Steve admonished her, hoping she would not be headstrong and try to push him out of the way because his backside was aching too much to allow him to resist her if she did, "you are not dressed warmly enough to wait on the bus and then wait on your transfer and then walk home from the bus stop.  I know you don't really want to go home to the fighting and arguing," he said, finding it hard to believe that things were really as bad as she had described, "but it's below freezing tonight, and with the wind chill, it's like it's below zero.  A city bus has no seatbelts, so if there's an accident, you're going to get tossed about.  Please, Sara, humor me just for tonight."

She pouted a bit, then nodded.  "But you are _not _walking me to the door, got it?"

"Oh, no ma'am.  I wouldn't dream of it," he smiled, pleased to have gotten his way, and relieved that he wouldn't have to climb in and out of the truck on the icy ground.

Forty minutes later, she directed him to pull up outside a rundown duplex in Compton.  Every light in the house was on, and Steve could hear the television blaring from the street.  Over the noise of the TV, he could hear a baby crying, children fighting, and two adults screaming at each other.  

Before he could say a word, Sara kissed him on the cheek and said, "Thanks for the ride, and for remembering my birthday."

She slipped out of the truck and trudged carefully across the icy street.  The teddy bear peeking out of the compartment on her backpack seemed incompatible with the surrounding squalor.  

Steve sat in his truck for several minutes, just staring at the house.  He couldn't believe Sara lived like this.  He found it hard to believe anyone lived in such circumstances, but he knew some people did.  He just couldn't fathom how Sara could be so bright and cheerful and so delightful coming from a background like this.

Suddenly, he wanted to go rescue her, but, knowing that simply carrying her off was not the answer, he finally forced himself to put the truck in gear and head cautiously off to Barbecue Bob's, driving slowly on the icy roads.

Steve moaned softly.  He'd lost count again, and despite the comfy cushioned bench, his butt was throbbing painfully.  It was past midnight, and he was alone at Bob's, sitting in a booth, trying to total the day's receipts.  He'd already called his dad and left a message telling him he'd be late tonight.  As bad as the roads were, he might even spend the night in his office.  His thoughts kept drifting to Sara and ways he might be able to help her.  He wondered if anyone would notice if she never came home.  Given the horrible family life she must have, it was no wonder she hadn't wanted him to drive her.  She probably didn't want him to see how she lived.  It was one thing to talk about a miserable, unhappy home to her friends in class, he supposed, but quite another to let them actually see it.

As he attacked his figures one more time, a sudden banging at the door startled him nearly out of his skin.  Looking toward the door where he'd hung out the sign that said 'CLOSED', he saw Sara's tear stained face peering in at him, mascara tracing black lines down her cheeks.  Soaking wet hair plastered her face, her left eye was blackened, and her lip and nose were bleeding.

"Oh, Steve!" she sobbed as he let her in.  "Thank God you're here."

A little boy of about eight years old with white blond, downy hair and frightened blue eyes followed her in.  He was carrying a squalling infant.  A girl of about five with stiff brown braids hanging down past her shoulders clung to the sleeve of the boy's coat.  She was carrying Sara's backpack and violin.

"Sara, sweetie, what happened?" he tried to speak soothingly.

"NOOO!" she screamed as he touched her elbow to guide her gently to a chair, and that was when he noticed she was holding her left arm protectively and it was bent at an unnatural angle just below the elbow.

"My mom left," she sobbed, and stopped talking as if that explained it all.

"Hey, buddy, I got a family to get home to, ya think I can get paid?"

Steve looked up to find that a rather surly looking man had come to the door after Sara and the children.  Glancing outside, he saw the cab with the off-duty sign alight.

"Why didn't you take her to a hospital?" Steve asked in consternation.  "Can't you see she's hurt?"

"She didn't ask me to take her to a hospital, mister.  She asked me to bring her here.  I don't get paid for taking people where they don't want to go."

Steve crossed the restaurant in a few quick, limping strides, grabbed a twenty from the cash drawer he'd been counting, stuffed it in the man's shirt pocket and shoved him toward the door saying disgustedly, "Keep the change and get out."

Steve turned back to his unexpected guests.  Sara, who had been on the verge of hysteria moments ago, was now sniffling quietly and seemed to have regained some composure.  

"Sara?" he said softly and winced as she started at the sound of his voice.  Then she grimaced in pain as she jostled her broken arm.

"Sara," Steve tried again.  "Will you be ok for a minute while I look after the little ones and get my truck?  I need to get you to the hospital."

She nodded, and choked out two words, "Go, Steve."

Looking to the frightened children, he said, "My name is Steve, and I'm Sara's friend."

The little boy looked up at him with midnight blue eyes and said, "My name is Timmy.  This is my sister Samantha," he added indicating the little girl.  Rocking the squalling infant, he finished the introductions, "This is my baby brother Mitchell.  His diaper's dirty.  Sara said you would help us."

Nodding, Steve said, "I will, Timmy.  I'm going to go get my truck and warm it up.  Will you look after your sisters and brother until I get back?"

Timmy nodded back.  "Yes, Sir," he said seriously.  "I'll take care of them."

Steve gave Timmy a gentle squeeze on the shoulder, then left the restaurant at a run, slipping and sliding across the dangerously icy parking lot, praying he wouldn't fall like he had that morning.  Moments later, he was pulling his truck up at the door, the heater, running full blast, had barely dented the cold, but he was afraid if he waited for the truck to warm up, Sara could slip into shock and he might lose her before he got to the hospital.  First, he helped Sara in, then he lifted the children in beside her.  Timmy held the baby the whole time and Samantha never said a word.

As he drove to Community General as fast as the treacherous roads would allow, he tried to gather more information.  "Sara, tell me what happened, please?" he asked over the wailing of the baby.

"My mom and step-dad were fighting when I got home," she sobbed.  "At first I thought it was nothing new, so I just went into my room and tried to study.  Then I heard her say their marriage was over and she was going to leave me to look after the kids.  She said I was eighteen and in the eyes of the law I was grown now and he was welcome to me."

She started shaking, and Steve slowed down even more so he could slip one arm around her and still safely drive.

Sara continued talking through chattering teeth and stifled sobs.  Steve had to strain to hear her over baby Mitchell's screaming.  "Eventually, they settled down, and I thought they were done for the night.  Then he kicked my bedroom door open and threw me down on the bed.  I tried to get away, and he hurt my arm."

"Sara, did he . . ."

"Yes!  Oh, God, Steve, please don't say it in front of the kids.  He said mom wouldn't anymore, and since she had left, I might as well be good for something, and . . . he did it."

She leaned into him, then and began to sob harder.  For the rest of the drive to the hospital, the only sounds in the cab of the truck were Sara's weeping and the baby's crying.

"So," Jesse said cheerfully as he came into the lounge for a cup of coffee around one o'clock in the morning, "are you about to head home for the night?"

Yawning and stretching, Mark said, "No, I think I'm going to spend the night here again."

"Mark, you can't keep avoiding Steve.  This isn't like you."

Mark frowned, and said, "I'm not avoiding him.  We talked about an hour ago.  The roads are bad with ice, and he's planning to stay the night at the restaurant.  I gave him my word I would stay put here until the roads are better."

"Oh, I see.  Is it really that bad out there?"

"Well, think about how many wrecks we've had," Mark told him.  "It's been freezing rain since about nine o'clock, and the city's about shut down because of it.  I have a feeling the only reason things have slowed down in the ER is that people are finally home for the night."

Jesse made a face as he drank down the last of his coffee.  It was black and bitter and tasted bad enough that he almost wished he hadn't drunk it.  He rinsed the cup and set it on the drain board to dry, then offered his mentor a hand up.  As they stepped out of the Doctor's Lounge together, Jesse nudged Mark in the direction of the elevator and said, "Go on, get some rest.  If we need you, I'll have you paged."

Mark made a face and said sarcastically, "Oh, thanks a lot," but as the elevator doors slid shut, he gave Jesse a genuine, albeit tired, smile and waved.  Jesse waved back and headed toward the ER reception desk.

"Jesse!" Steve yelled as he burst through the door of the ER with Sara cradled in his arms.  "I need help."

The well-oiled machinery of the ER snapped into action and suddenly there was a gurney available for Steve to gently lay Sara down on.

"The kids," she murmured, and Steve looked to the nurse. 

"There are two children and a baby out in my truck.  The baby needs a fresh diaper, can you look after them?"  Barely sparing the time for a nod, the nurse headed out to collect the children and bring them to the waiting warmth of the hospital.

As Jesse gently examined Sara, Steve held her good hand and spoke to her soothingly.  

"Sara, sweetie, this is my friend Jesse.  He's a real good doctor, and he'll take care of you."  He did not notice Jesse's raised eyebrow or the appraising look he gave Sara upon hearing Steve's tender words.

"Nurse, call Dr. Sloan for me."

"No!" Steve snapped.  "Don't bother him.  I'll talk to him later."

"Doctor?" the nurse questioned.

Not knowing his father was still at the hospital, Steve gave his friend a pleading look and a shake of the head.  He really didn't want Mark driving those treacherous roads under any circumstances, but especially not when he thought his son needed him.  Having just sent Mark up to his office for a sleep, it never occurred to Jesse that Steve would think he was at home.  

Having enough to contend with in Sara's injuries, he decided he didn't need to agitate his friend right now, so he shook his head and told the nurse, "Leave it for now.  I'll talk to him later."

"Steve?"  Amanda's voice called, and Steve looked over his shoulder to see her lovely face frowning in concern.  "I stepped out for some air, and saw your truck.  Are you ok?"

"Amanda?  Yes, I'm fine.  Why are you still here?"

She sighed with relief, and as Steve went back to murmuring encouragement to Sara she explained, "I didn't beat the rain, and since the kids are fine at Mom's, I decided it would be safest to just stay here for the night."  Moving over to put a hand on his shoulder, she looked down at Sara and asked softly, "Who's your friend?"

"Sara," Steve said, stroking her wet blond hair gently, "this is Dr. Amanda Bentley.  She's another good friend of mine."  He caressed the girl's hand softly, not noticing as Jesse cut him another questioning look, he said, "I need to go talk to Amanda a moment, sweetie.  Will you be ok with Jesse?"

She nodded, and winced in pain.  "Check on the kids while you're gone, will you?"

"I will, honey," Steve promised.  "You just listen to Jesse and let him take care of you, ok?"

"Ok."

Out in the hall, Steve came directly to the point.  "Her mother moved out, and her step-father raped her tonight, Amanda.  She showed up at Bob's with her brother and sister and the baby while I was doing the books.  I know her arm is broken, and it's hard to say what else.  I'm going to contact her real father and send some uniforms over to pick up her step-dad.  I need you to stay with her while Jesse does a rape kit."

"I can do that, Steve, but first of all, how old is she?  If she is a minor, you know we need consent from the custodial parent."

"She turned eighteen today," Steve said bitterly.

"Oh, my," Amanda said, "poor kid."

Seeing the nurse he had sent out to the truck for the children, Steve flagged her down and asked about them.  

"They're ok," she said.  "Frightened, but unharmed.  I changed the baby's diaper.  He has a pretty bad rash.  Now, they're all three in the lounge.  The little one is sleeping, and Dr. Martin is playing with the other two, trying subtly to check them over.  If you ask me, all three show signs of neglect and some abuse."

Steve nodded.  "I'm not surprised.  Could you see if they've eaten, and if not, could you get them something?"

"Ok, I'll do that," the nurse smiled, and then patted his arm saying, "Your friend will be ok."

Steve nodded his appreciation.

As the nurse left, Jesse came out to join them.  "All right," he said, "her arm is broken and will require surgery to repair, but it will eventually be fine.  She has a mild concussion, her nose, fortunately, is not broken, and it has stopped bleeding.  I'm a little worried about her eye and would like to have an ophthalmologist look at it soon, and, um, Steve . . . "

"I know she was raped, Jess," Steve said, saving his friend the discomfort of having to say it.  "I need to talk to her a few minutes, and then Amanda is going to sit with her while you do a rape kit."

"Steve," Jesse said, "I'll need parental permission to do that, and to treat her injuries."

"She's eighteen, Jess," Steve told him, his voice tight with anger, "and her mother just abandoned her.  Her step-dad did this to her, and she hasn't seen her real father in years.  You don't need her parents for anything."

As Steve pushed past Jesse on his way to the treatment room, he again missed the young doctor's troubled glance.  

"So," Amanda said, turning to her friend, "any idea how they know each other?"

Jesse cut Amanda a very unhappy look and muttered, "I think she's his girlfriend."

"Oh, my God.  Jesse, what is he doing with her?  She's so young."

"Sara, honey, are you awake?"

Sara opened her eyes and turned her head toward him.

Steve moved over and placed a hand softly on her head.  "How're you doing?"

"It hurts, Steve," she said, and her tears started to fall.

"I know, baby, but Jesse will take real good care of you, and when he comes back, he'll give you something for the pain if you ask him."

"O-Ok.  How are the kids?"

"They're fine," he said.  "Another one of my friends, another doctor, is playing with them now, and the baby is sleeping and has a fresh diaper."  He dabbed at the tears that wouldn't stop and said, "Now, Sara, I need to ask you a few questions."

"About what?"  She sounded scared.

"You don't have to tell me what happened, honey, I'll call for a female officer to take your statement," Steve reassured her, stroking her hair.  He knew how difficult it was for rape victims to talk about the assault with the people closest to them, "I just need to know the name of your step-dad so he can be arrested and I need to contact your real dad so he can be here for you."

"My dad is named Richard Andersen.  He lives in Burbank."

Steve grunted, trying to keep his opinion to himself.  He knew homes for sale in that area started in the low $300,000's, and he couldn't understand why a man with that kind of money would let his daughter suffer such a horrible existence.

Sara gave him the phone number of her dad's house and then told him, "I won't press charges against my step-dad, Steve."

Her statement didn't surprise Steve.  He knew it was common for rape and assault victims to want to sweep the incident under the carpet and try to forget it ever happened.  He also know, more times than not, it didn't work.

"Sara, sweetie, listen to me," he soothed her.  "Right now, you're scared and hurting and probably just want to pretend this never happened.  I can understand that.  Later, you might be angry, and you might want justice.  It will be a lot easier to let us charge him now and then drop the charges if you decide not to go through with it, than it will be to get a conviction if you wait to press charges."

"You don't understand anything," Sara started to sob.  "I have to go back to that house.  What's he going to do to me if I have him arrested?"

Steve took a deep breath, trying to steady his temper.  He was furious at the people who had put her in such a difficult situation, and didn't want Sara to get the idea he was mad at her.  He knew abuse victims often felt trapped and believed any attempt at escape would be futile, so he knew he had to give her a way out.

"Honey, you're legally an adult now, you don't ever have to go back.  You can stay with my dad and me at the beach until you find somewhere to go."

"Oh, yeah?" she suddenly shouted at him, and he was surprised by her anger.  "And just who will look after Timmy, Samantha, and Mitchell if I do that?  Or should I just abandon them like my mother did me?"

Of course, the children, he had forgotten all about the children, and he felt like an idiot.  At least now, he knew what the real problem was, and he could try to resolve it.

"Sweetheart, I know people who will take care of them.  You told them I would help you.  Trust me, baby, let me help."

"But Steve . . ."

"Sara, I can find people to look after them and you, and I can put your step-dad in jail so you never have to see him again."

She hesitated a bit and then said, "My step-dad is Mitch Reeder.  Mom named my baby brother after him."

"Ok, sweetheart, we'll get him."   

He turned leave, intent on tending to business, but she called him back.  "Steve, please make sure he goes to jail.  He'll kill me if he gets out."

Steve went over to her, and took her good hand in his,  "I will, honey, it's my job, and I'm good at it.  I've been doing it since before you were born."

She nodded, trusting his words, and he leaned over to drop a kiss on her forehead.  The soft sound of Jesse clearing his throat pulled him away, and he saw that Amanda and another young woman were with him and they were ready to do the rape kit.

Stroking Sara's hair, Steve explained, "Sara, Jesse's going to do a special examination now called a rape kit.  It's to make sure you haven't been physically injured and to gather evidence in case you decide to go through with charging your . . ."  Now that the monster had a name, Steve found he couldn't call him her step-dad.  "In case you want to follow up the charges against Mitch."

"W-Will it hurt?" Sara asked plaintively.

Stepping forward, Jesse tried hard to reassure her.  "It might be a little uncomfortable, Sara, but it shouldn't hurt.  If it does, all you have to do is tell me, and I'll give you something to make you more comfortable."

"Ok."  

"Ok, Sara," Steve crooned, "that's a brave girl.  Now, Amanda is going to sit with you while I call your dad and send some men over to pick up Mitch."

As he stepped away, Sara grabbed his hand, and begged, "Please, Steve, don't leave me."

Steve froze in his tracks, lost for words and desperate to get away, knowing he could never hold onto his emotions through the whole exam.  He shot Amanda an anxious look, and she came over to take Sara's hand.  To his credit, Steve didn't run out immediately.  He would wait until Sara told him he could go.

"Sara," Amanda said in that gentle cajoling tone that almost always got Mark, Steve, and Jesse to do what she asked, "I've had a few friends who have been through this sort of thing before.  From talking to them, I know that you don't want Steve here."  She started to stroke the young woman's brow, trying to establish contact and, along with it, trust.

"I know you think you do," Amanda continued as Sara tried to protest, "but if he stays here now, tomorrow, when the shock has worn off and reality sets in, when you _really_ need him, you won't be able to face him knowing he's seen this.  Let me stay with you for now so Steve can make his calls, then, when you're in a room, Steve can come sit by you until your dad gets here, ok?"

Sara stared at Steve for several seconds, wanting to argue, but finally, she closed her eyes and nodded, conceding to Amanda's greater experience.  Steve gave her one last quick kiss on the forehead, and said, "I'll see you again as soon as you are in your room, sweetie.  Until then, Jesse and Amanda will look after you."

Sara nodded, and Steve left.  The last thing he heard was Jesse saying, "Ok, Sara, I'll give you something for the pain as soon as the phlebotomist draws some blood.  I'm just going to roll up your sleeve here . . . "

"Oh, yeah?"  Steve said into the phone.  "Serves the bastard right.  Thanks for calling.  I'll be waiting for him."

After hanging up the phone at the nurse's station, Steve went over to the security guard and indicated to him the door of Sara's exam room.  Jesse and Amanda were still with her, but they would be finishing up soon, and then she would be off to surgery to set her broken arm.

"The man who assaulted the girl in that room," he told the guard, "is being brought in by two LAPD officers to be stitched up.  It seems in trying to evade arrest, he slipped on the ice and slid into a half-full barrel of empty beer bottles.  He knocked it over, and some of them broke, cutting him up pretty bad."

The guard nodded to indicate his understanding.

"The young lady has been severely traumatized, and shouldn't be upset anymore than she has been already.  So, if she should even hear his voice, I want you to shoot him, got it?"

"Yes, Sir!" the guard said sharply, then, confused, he asked, "Do you mean that?"

Steve seemed to reconsider his orders for a moment, then looked at the young man and deadpanned, "Yes, but use your discretion, I have enough of a backlog as it is."

The guard frowned, then smiled and said, "Don't worry, Sir, I'll take care of it."

Steve nodded, and patted the guard on the shoulder.  "Good man," he said.  Then he went over to the exam room and knocked softly on the door.  When the nurse opened it a crack, he heard Sara softly crying and Amanda gently shushing her.

"I need to speak to Dr. Travis for just a moment."

The nurse nodded and went back in the room.  A few seconds later, Jesse came out.  After explaining the situation with Mitch Reeder, he asked, "Is there any way you can have her out of here before he arrives?  She just doesn't need to see him."

"We'll be done in about five minutes," Jesse said.  "Then we'll be taking her up to OR to take care of her arm.  If you can stall him until then, they should completely miss each other."

"Ok, I'll do that."  Squeezing his friend's shoulder, he added, "Thanks, Jess, this means a lot to me.  I really care about Sara, y'know?"

"Yeah, I know," Jesse said flatly, and closed the door in Steve's face.

If Steve didn't know better, he might have thought his friend was mad at him, but he realized that doctors, like homicide detectives, had to shut down their emotions at times in order to do their jobs.  Knowing Jesse would be as sickened as he was by what Mitch Reeder had done to Sara, he naturally assumed this was one of those times.

As he walked out to the ER entrance, he flipped open his cell phone, scrolled down to a number, and pressed dial.  On the fifth ring, his call was answered in a language that wasn't English.

"Yoon MinJe?" Steve inquired, not sure who else lived in MinJe's house.  He noticed as he waited for the groggy reply that the air seemed warmer now and water was dripping from the roof over the ambulance parking area.  By morning, things would probably be wet, but back to normal.

"This is MinJe," the voice answered, irritably.  

"MinJe, this is Steve Sloan," he said, pacing back and forth in front of the ER doors.  "I'm sorry to call you so late or early or whatever you want to call it, but Sara has been hurt, and you are the only other person I know who would care.  I'm at the Emergency Room with her now."

"What hospital, Steve?"  Steve could hear the grunts and groans of an old man getting up much too early in the morning.  "What happened?"

Just then, Steve saw a black and white pull into the drive.  "We're at Community General.  I'll fill you in when you get here.  Right now, I have something I need to deal with."

Without waiting for a reply, he turned off the phone and approached the black and white.  

"Mitchell Reeder, you are under arrest for assault and battery, aggravated assault, and the rape of Sara Andersen."  The man was a bloody mess, staggering drunk, and reeking of cheap liquor.  

"You have the right to remain silent.  If you give up the right to remain silent, any thing you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.  You have the right to consult with an attorney and to have an attorney present during question . . ."

"Yeah, yeah, we've been through it once already."

"I know," Steve said, "but we're going through it again so I know it was done properly."  As he spoke, Steve gave the uniformed officers a look that suggested they would be still and accept his criticism if they didn't want to be walking a beat by sunrise.

As he finished the Miranda rights, he told the officers, "Once he has been treated and is properly admitted and under guard in the secure wing, I want you both to report to me in the OR waiting room so I can explain a few things."  

Steve felt bad saying what he did, but he had to make it look like further criticism of the officers, otherwise, a halfway clever attorney could twist it to look like the police were withholding medical treatment from a prisoner, and his little gambit to spare Sara further trauma could end up costing the city millions of dollars.  To their credit, both men nodded, and to Steve's credit, they were more curiously worried about why the respected lieutenant was being so hard on them than they were offended that he had questioned their procedure.

As Mitch Reeder was being led away, a green SUV screeched to a stop behind the black and white and a man leaped out screaming, "Reeder, you son of a bitch, if you've hurt my daughter, I'll break your neck!"

_That would be Richard Andersen, I suppose._  Steve stepped smoothly toward the man who was now charging the ER doors in pursuit of Mitch Reeder.  He grabbed Andersen around the waist, and using his superior strength and leverage, deftly spun him around, and pushed him against the police car.

"Mr. Andersen, calm down.  The last thing Sara needs is for you to go to jail, too, for assaulting Reeder."  Steve gasped slightly as the sore muscles in his behind latently protested the sudden demand he had put on them in turning Andersen away from the ER.

Andersen banged his fists on the roof of the black and white and fought back a bit, and Steve suppressed a moan of pain as he struggled to keep his footing on the icy blacktop while he tried to subdue the upset man.

"She's ok, Sir," Steve said soothingly, "or she will be, but she's going to need you when she comes out of surgery, so you need to get control of yourself."

Andersen went still all over and echoed back, "Surgery?"

"Yes, Sir, she has a broken arm, and they need to operate to set it properly."  Steve let him go and stepped back.  He noticed the man sagged against the police car.  Richard Andersen was distraught, a frantic father, certainly not the image of the disinterested, too-busy-to-be-bothered corporate man Steve had been carrying in his head the past week.

"H-How did you know my name?"

"Steve Sloan," he said, showing the man his badge and ID.  "I'm a friend of Sara's and I'm the one who called you.  She's already been taken to surgery.  We can talk in the OR waiting room."

Andersen nodded, and let Steve guide him gently to into the building and back the hall to the elevator.

"I tried to get custody three times, but she always told the family court judge she wanted to stay with her mother.  Actually, she said she needed to stay with her," Richard Andersen rambled, trying to explain his distant relationship with his daughter to Steve and MinJe.  

"I never understood that.  Sometimes my ex-wife drank too much, but she's not an alcoholic, and she's not an invalid.  I know she and Reeder fight, but Latasha can defend herself, she is not a fragile woman.  She never looked after Sara all that well, and I know she didn't need Sara to look after her."

"Sara looks after us," Timmy piped up.  

He and Samantha were playing quietly on the floor by the windows in the waiting room under the watchful eyes of Steve, MinJe, and Richard Andersen.  Baby Mitchell had been sleeping peacefully in an armchair until he'd woken wet and crying, and now, he was cooing and babbling in MinJe's arms, dry and happy because the old man had changed him.

Alex, knowing a call to a social worker would have the children removed to emergency foster care before their sister was out of surgery, had convinced a senior doctor to have them admitted for 'testing'.  The elderly physician, a pediatrician, knew a sympathetic social worker who would allow them time to find a suitable place for the children before they got sucked into the system.

"Sara takes good care of you, does she?"  Steve asked, beginning to fit the pieces together.

Samantha nodded in her quiet, wide-eyed way, and Timmy explained.  "She makes us breakfast and helps us dress for school and helps us with homework and washes and mends our clothes, and last summer, when I found a pigeon with a broken wing, she helped me take care of it until my dad broke its neck because he didn't want no flying rats in the house."

When the children were once again absorbed in their play, Steve turned to Sara's father.  "Mr. Andersen, do you think she might have needed to stay for them?"

"She never said that, Lieutenant, but she loves them, and I think she'd sooner die than see them hurt."  Andersen was starting to choke up, and he buried his face in his hands for a moment.  When he looked up again, he was red-eyed, but in control.  

"My new wife Margaret and I live well, and we're happily married.  I didn't make the kind of mistakes I did with Tasha.  I made sure we were both ready and both wanted the same things before I asked her to marry me.  I have a good, secure job, now, and we have a big house, but no children to make it a home.  If that were all it would take to get Sara to come live with me, I would have happily taken them in, too.  I'm sure it would have been easy, because Tasha and Mitch never wanted to raise kids together."

Without warning, MinJe turned to Steve and handed him the baby.  Little Mitchell cried at first, a bit startled by his change in circumstances, but Steve started making faces at him, and he began to laugh.

"I will require the use of a telephone," MinJe said.

Too confused to question, Steve just nodded at the one on the wall of the waiting room and said, "Dial nine to get an outside line, then just dial the number."  Then he looked at the clock on the wall and wondered who MinJe could be calling at four in the morning.

As he and Richard Andersen sat quietly worrying about Sara, MinJe had an animated telephone conversation with someone who was apparently, and justifiably, annoyed at being awoken so early.  He mentioned Sara's name several times.  Steve was disappointed that the conversation was in Korean, because he was itching with curiosity to know who the other person was. 

He had just gone back to making faces at the baby when he distinctly heard MinJe say in English, "I am your father!  You should do as I say!"  

Steve grinned so widely it made the baby laugh.  He may not have known the words, but he knew the story by heart.  _Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one._

"Thank you.  You are a good son."

_He gave in right on cue, just like I do, every time._

MinJe came back and joined them.  Steve noticed he did not take back the baby.  "My son can help.  He is a family court judge.  He will be here within the hour."

The three men sat in silence, waiting for word on Sara's condition, as the children played and the baby alternately slept and laughed at Steve's funny faces.  Steve even slept lightly for a while, and felt incredibly guilty when he awoke with a start and woke the baby.  _Waking him is better than dropping him, but I'm sure he knows something is really wrong, and he needs his sleep as much as I do.  _When Steve's mouth opened in an exaggerated yawn, the baby let his mouth gape open, too, in miniature imitation, then the infant giggled and grinned when Steve laughed at him and started making faces again.

"Lieutenant," a voice called softly, making him blush in embarrassment to wonder how long the speaker had been watching him, "Reeder is in the secure wing under guard, and we are reporting as ordered."

MinJe was dozing in his seat, so Steve handed the baby off to Richard Andersen and went to speak with the officers in the hall.

" . . . so you see, I needed to review the charges to give them time to move her," Steve was explaining to the officers.  "It wasn't a criticism of you, but I couldn't appear to be preventing him from receiving treatment."

"Hey, it's ok, Lieutenant," the older officer said.

"Yes, Sir," his partner added.  "We know enough about you to trust your judgment."

Steve smiled, and said, "Thanks, Officers," he looked at their badges, "Miles and Grant.  I'll remember this.  If you ever need a good word, give me a shout and I'll see what I can do."

"Yes, Sir," Miles said.

"Thank you, Sir," Grant added.

As the two officers were walking away, Steve saw a distinguished-looking Asian gentleman about his own age approaching.  "Judge Yoon?" he said as the man drew closer.

"Yes, that's me," he said, extending his hand, "and you are?"

"Steve Sloan.  Your father's just down the hall along with Sara's dad."

MinJe and his son, Judge Michael Yoon, had just finished introductions when Richard Andersen stopped in mid sentence to look anxiously at the door.  Steve shifted in his seat, gritting his teeth against the complaints from his sore rump to see what had caught the man's attention.  He saw Jesse standing in the doorway, wearing his look of sympathetic, professional concern that was so convincing on such a youthful face only because it was genuine.

After making the introductions, Jesse sat down to discuss Sara's condition with her father, and all talk of legal procedure and custody agreements was abandoned.  Under normal circumstances, Jesse would have preferred to protect his patient's privacy, but from what he had gathered, every one who ever gave a damn about the young woman was in this room now, and with so few people to support her, they all needed to know how she was faring.

"Sara's arm will be fine.  There was minimal nerve damage, and the bones were easily set.  It will take a few weeks, but it will heal perfectly."

"Oh, thank God," Andersen whispered, and Jesse noted Steve breathing a big sigh of relief as well.

"Mr. Andersen," Jesse continued, once the man had collected himself, "while her arm was the worst of her physical injuries, she . . . well, she was . . ."

"Lieutenant Sloan told me what that bastard did to her, doctor.  I know no operation can heal all her injuries.  I'll be there for her.  When can I see her?"

Jesse smiled, pleasantly surprised at the good feeling he was getting about Sara's father.  After the way Steve had talked about Sara's parents earlier, he hadn't expected the man to care much about his daughter's condition.  His smile quickly turned to a frown as he wondered why Steve would slander the man in such a fashion.

"Uh, she'll be moved to a room soon.  The floor nurse will call you when she's settled."  Tapping Steve on the elbow, he asked, "Can I talk to you a minute, about another matter?"

Steve nodded.

"Mr. Andersen," Steve said, "when you talk to Sara, tell her I'll stop by tomorrow."  He looked at his watch, it was four thirty.  "Well, later today, I guess, if she's up for visitors."  

Richard Andersen nodded.  Steve shook his hand again, and excusing himself, followed his friend out of the waiting room and down the hall.  At the end of the hall, Jesse pulled him into the stairwell, and all his good advice forgotten, he shoved his friend against the wall as he had done to Mark earlier.  Steve grunted in surprise and a little pain as his hip had tightened up while he was sitting and was now protesting the rough treatment.

"Steve Sloan, what in the hell are you doing with that little girl?"  _So much for getting him to open up about his feelings.  Travis, you're an idiot._

"What do you mean, Jesse?" Steve said, shoving him away.  "Sara's a friend."

_Oh, man, can you salvage this situation?  _

"Are you sure she's just a friend, Steve?" 

"Yeah.  I think I know who my friends are, don't I?"

Jesse wasn't at all comfortable with the way Steve was looking at him.  He didn't want to hurt his friend, but he didn't want to get hurt either.

"Jesse, what are you implying?"

_Might as well confront him.  He could hit you, but he'd never hurt you, would he?_

"Steve, are you sure you and Sara aren't more than just friends?  Are you sure the two of you aren't a couple?"

There was a long silence, then Steve laughed in disbelief.  "Man, Jess, you had me going there for a minute."

_Jess isn't smiling.  Why isn't he smiling?_

"It was a joke, right?"

When Jesse shook his head no, Steve suddenly felt ill.

"My God, Jess!  That's sick.  I'm almost thirty years older than Sara.  She's just a child!  I'm old enough to be her father.  What you're suggesting, it's . . . it's perverted!"

"Steve, I only ask because I'm worried about you.  Your dad was at the community college yesterday, Thursday night, to lecture an advanced nursing class.  He saw you and Sara together."

Steve's expression shut down completely, and he said, "What did he see?"

Jesse fought against his better judgment as he struggled not to duck while telling Steve what Mark had seen.  "He said he saw the two of you kissing.  He saw a lover's quarrel, and he saw you make up.  Oh, and he saw her feeding you."

Steve turned quickly away.  The sudden motion startled Jesse, and while he didn't duck he did flinch.  When Steve turned back to face him, he ducked.

Clenching his fists and his jaw, Steve struggled not to whack Jesse a good one.  He couldn't ever remember being so angry.  Maybe his best friend didn't realize he wouldn't dream of taking advantage of an attractive girl like Sara, but surely, his own father should know better.  He felt utterly betrayed.

"For the record, Dr. Travis," his emphasis on the title made Jesse flinch, "Sara Andersen and I are, have always been, and will always be, just friends.  There is an innocent explanation for everything my father saw Thursday night, but under the circumstances, I am not inclined to explain.  Perhaps later, we can discuss this more completely, but until the two of you can get your minds out of the gutter, leave Sara and me alone.  Thank you so much for your concern."

Without another word, Steve turned and jogged down the steps, too angry to feel the soreness in his rear.  As he burst out the stairwell exit door onto the ice-covered landing, he slipped, and had to cling to the rail to keep from falling as his feet shot out from under him.  Fortunately, he didn't land on his behind again, but when his pant leg slid up and his calf scraped across the rough edge of the top step, now encrusted with ice and an ineffectual layer of rock salt, he swore aloud, cutting loose with a stream of curses that would certainly have earned him a gentle admonishment from his father.  As he carefully made his way across the parking lot to his truck, the irony of the situation struck him and he laughed sarcastically.  

_Who in the hell cares about a little profanity when, according to Jesse, he thinks I'm a virtual pedophile now._

As he got into his truck, the sense of betrayal came back anew, and he let out the anger by slamming the truck into reverse and stomping on the gas.  The tires spun until they bit through the ice, and when they finally found traction, Steve spun the wheel, expertly backing the truck out of the parking spot.  Braking proved to be an unexpected problem though, and when he slid backwards into the shrubbery growing at the edge of the lot, Steve cursed himself, his truck, the ice, the bushes, Jesse Travis, and, almost, his father.

Knowing he needed to calm down if he hoped to get home in one piece, Steve cut off the engine and sat there breathing deeply for several moments.  When that didn't feel like it was working, he turned the key to bring up the power again and popped a CD in the player and poked at the buttons until he found 'The First Noel.'  As the CD played, he tried to pick out the violin part.  His eyes drifted shut as he got lost in the music, and, though he wasn't exactly playing the 'air violin', one hand unconsciously mimed working the frets while the other waved back and forth in the air in time with the strokes he would use with his bow.

By the time the tune had ended, Steve's mind had cleared and his anger had dissipated.  It had all been a simple misunderstanding, and he was touched that his dad and Jesse cared so much that they would risk broaching such a difficult topic as his love life to help him when they thought he was in trouble.  He probably wouldn't have even blown up at Jess if it hadn't been such a long, stressful day already.  In the mood for some more cheerful music, he slipped out the Christmas Classics CD and put in Kids Holiday Favorites.  He was hoping to be able to play a couple tunes especially for CJ and Dion by Christmas Eve.  

As he pulled carefully out of the lot, Steve started working out what he would say to ease his father's worries without giving away his Christmas surprise.  Then he would think about mending fences with Jesse.  He was sure glad he hadn't hit Jess.  He didn't mind eating a little crow to make up for his harsh words, but to have actually struck the smaller man would have been unforgivable. 

As he headed toward PCH, Steve noticed that the most frequently used streets, though wet, were no longer slick and treacherous with ice.  The friction of constant traffic and the heat of thousands of engines had apparently warmed the road and melted the ice away.  As the CD began to play 'Jingle Bells,' he nudged his truck into a higher gear and gave it a little more gas.

As the truck picked up speed, Steve's spirits rose further still.  Tonight was Jesse's last nightshift at the hospital for a while.  Tomorrow, he would be free to help out at Bob's, and Steve wouldn't have to scramble so hard to cover his shifts and get to practice and class on time.  Also, with Jess there to help close at the end of the night, they would both get out of there faster, because one of them could make a new batch of sauce and finish off the last of the cleanup while the other took inventory, wrote out orders for supplies, and counted the receipts.

_The receipts._  Steve looked at his watch.  It was five in the morning, still dark and wet, but morning nonetheless.  At least he had the day off.  _Might as well make a little detour and take care of the deposits.  Dad will have breakfast ready about the time I get home, then it's time for a shower and some sleep.  _At the next intersection, Steve signaled and turned the truck toward Bob's.

By the time he pulled into the restaurant parking lot, Steve was humming along with Burl Ives as he sang 'Frosty the Snowman,' and he suddenly wondered if Sara had ever seen snow.  The thought of what had happened to her last night shattered his mood and left him somber.  Distracted, he pulled into his parking space too quickly and winced slightly as his beloved truck slid to a stop and the front tires bounced against the curb.  The parking area had seen less traffic than the main roads and was still icy.  Gently, he backed off a little.

He felt bad about leaving the hospital without speaking to Sara.  While it was true, her father had been there, she would probably be expecting to see him as well when she woke up, and he couldn't help but feel he had let her down.  He knew he had been so angry with Jesse that he would have only upset her had he stayed, but he felt guilty nonetheless.  He wanted to make it up to her somehow.

As Burl Ives sang, "Bumpity-Bump-Bump!  Bumpity-Bump-Bump! Look at Frosty go!  Bumpity-Bump-Bump!  Bumpity-Bump-Bump!  Over the hills of snow!" a grin spread across Steve's face.  Once a year, the Police Athletic League sponsored a weekend trip to Big Bear for at-risk kids.  Steve usually went with a group from Brendan Kelley's Never Say Die gym.  Maybe, if Sara were feeling better, he'd invite her to go along.  Even if she didn't want to ski, there were plenty of things to do at the lodge.  She could play video games in the arcade, or go for a hike on one of the well-maintained winter trails.  Sometimes, a group of kids even got a counselor to chaperone them into town for some shopping and a trip to the bowling alley or the movies.  There was usually at least one group of six- to eight-year-olds, so Timmy and Samantha could probably come, too.

Feeling more cheerful by the minute, Steve stepped out of the truck, and barely caught himself as he slipped on a patch of ice.  Now his hip and his leg hurt, and he was feeling the wear and tear of the past twenty-four hours in every muscle and joint of his body.  He made his way carefully to the door and let himself into the restaurant.

By five thirty, Steve was groaning in frustration as he realized he hadn't miscounted twice.  He had simply forgotten to account for the twenty dollars he had paid Sara's cab driver.  He knew he didn't have the cash on him, so he wrote an IOU on a convenient napkin and slipped it into the cash drawer.  Then he put the money into the cash bag along with a completed deposit slip.  

After he put the cash drawer back in the register, he paused a moment by the phone.  He just wanted to go home as soon as possible and get some rest, but for some reason, he felt compelled to call Jesse and apologize.  His hand lingered over the receiver a moment as he wondered how his friend would receive his call.  Maybe he should give Jesse a day or so to cool down.  He had every right to be angry about Steve's overreaction to his friendly concern.  He hesitated a moment more, then, shaking his head, he picked up the receiver and placed the call.  For some reason, he felt, the sooner he put things right between himself and his best friend, the better.

"Community General Hospital," the nasally operator's voice said.

"Dr. Jesse Travis, please.  Tell him it's Steve Sloan, and it's important."

After a moment or two on hold, Jesse's slightly frantic voice came on the line.

"Steve!  Are you ok?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, Jess."  Steve was puzzled.  "Why do you ask?"

"Well, that is, uh, you were just so angry when you left, I, uh . . ."

"You were worried, weren't you?"

"Yeah, I was."

Steve chuckled.  "Thank you for your concern," he said, sincerely this time, "but I am all right."  He heard a big sigh.

"Uh, listen, Steve," Jesse began, "what I said about Sara . . . "

"No, Jess, wait a second.  You listen to me first."

"Steve, I just think . . . "

"Jesse, will you shut up and let me talk, please?"

"Ok, Steve, shoot."

"First of all, I really do appreciate your concern and Dad's.  Not everyone has someone who cares enough to look out for them when they seem to be in trouble."

"You know, that's all it is, Steve, we care, and we're worried."

"I know, and I'm sorry I got so angry."

"Steve, maybe you need to talk to your dad about Sara . . . "

"I will, Jess, but right now I need to talk to you," he insisted.  "Sara and I are just friends.  Now that I think about it, I can imagine how things must have looked to my dad the other night, but Jess, I promise you, it was all completely innocent."

"Steve, your dad said he saw you kissing."

"Ok, yes.  She told me in so many words that she has a crush on me.  I think she was just testing me to see what I'd do."

"What did you do, Steve?"

Jesse sounded so serious, for a moment Steve's anger flared again, but he quashed it down, knowing his friend was just worried.  "I told her I was old enough to be her father and that it would never work."

Steve heard another relieved sigh and had to smile.  Even over the phone, he could read Jesse's emotions like a book, _or maybe a billboard._

"So," Jesse asked, trying to sound casual, "how do you two know each other?"

"Jess," Steve asked, "do you trust me?"

"Well, yeah," Jesse said, as if the answer should be obvious, which, in reality it was.

"Ok, then trust me when I tell you that Sara and I are just friends.  That's it," then, knowing Jesse would need more explanation, and would feel awkward asking, he added, "I can't tell you how we met, or why I was at the community college, because it is all part of something extra special I want to do for Dad for Christmas.  If I tell him anything about how Sara and I met, he will know right away what's up, and my Christmas present to him will be ruined.  Do you understand?"

"Yeah, I guess," Jesse said, not sounding convinced.

"Good.  Now, how is Sara?"

Jesse was suddenly back in professional mode.  "She is resting comfortably.  She woke up for a little while, and was very happy to see her dad.  Calling him was the right thing to do.  She asked about you, too, but when we explained that you had urgent business to attend to, she just made us promise you'd be allowed to see her later.  She asked for the bear you bought her, and once she had it, she went right off to sleep again.  You know, if you tell me how you met her, I'll keep it a secret."

Steve laughed aloud then.  "No offense, Jess, but you keep secrets like a sieve holds water.  How are Timmy, Samantha, and Mitchell?"

"They're fine.  Judge Yoon has already issued a temporary custody order placing them with Sara's dad until Mitch Reeder's arraignment."

"Wow, that was fast!"

"Yeah.  He said he was 'shoving it through a loophole backwards' at his father's request.  By the way, how'd you meet MinJe?"

"The same way I met Sara," Steve said patiently, "and no, I am not telling you."

"But, Steve!"

"No, Jess," Steve said, using a warning tone, "I'm not telling you, and don't even hint to my dad that it has something to do with Christmas.  If you ruin this surprise, I will hurt you."

"Well, what if he asks me?"

Steve considered that a moment.  "Tell him I have convinced you that everything is innocent between Sara and me . . . I have convinced you, haven't I?"

"Huh?  Oh, yeah.  Yeah, you have."

"Good.  And tell him if he has other questions he needs to ask me, ok?"

"Ok, but you know it's going to drive me nuts not knowing what you're up to."

Steve laughed evilly, "I know."  A pause, then, "Uh, Jess?  We are ok, now, aren't we?"

The warmth in Jesse's voice answered his question even better than the words.  "You're my best friend, Steve.  We're always ok."

This time, Steve sighed with relief.  "Ok.  I'm going to drop off the receipts from Bob's on the way home.  Talk to you later, and thanks, Jess."

"Don't mention it.  See ya."

His heart lighter after he hung up, Steve did one last check of the restaurant to make sure everything was ready to go when Bob's opened for business again in six hours, then he headed out to his truck.  This time, he remembered the ice, and walked more carefully.

The next song on the CD was 'Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer,' which Steve abhorred, so he hit the skip button, and started singing along with 'Santa Claus Is Coming to Town' instead.  He was tired, so he put the window down slightly to circulate some fresh air into the cab of the truck, and he turned up the music to help him stay awake.  Citizens' Bank was coming up on the left, and then he was home free, off to breakfast with his dad and a good long sleep.

He and Jesse had particularly decided to keep their business accounts with Citizens' because the bank had branches with night deposits along each of their routes home as well as on the way to the precinct and the hospital.  The four strategic locations ensured that neither of them would ever have to carry the night's take far or hold onto it for long.  Jesse liked the arrangement because he didn't like taking responsibility for that much cash, and Steve was pleased because the sooner they deposited the money, the less risk they had of the restaurant being robbed.

By the time he slowed down for the turn into the bank's lot, Steve was feeling quite pleased with himself, not only for his shrewd business sense in choosing a bank with so many convenient locations, but also for his inspired idea to surprise Sara with a ski trip to Big Bear.  He was delighted that he had smoothed things over with Jesse, thrilled that MinJe's son had worked out something to help Sara, Timmy, Samantha, and little Mitchell, and looking forward to having breakfast with his dad.  He knew, that though it would be difficult to quell Mark's curiosity about what he was doing on the community college campus, now that he wasn't so angry, he could easily calm his father's concerns.  All in all, his mood was soaring, despite his fatigue.

Then everything went to hell.

The main entrance to the bank's parking lot was a long, smoothly paved driveway that sloped steeply away from the road.  The bank was far out of town, it had been closed for the day when the freezing rain had started last night, and most of its nighttime depositors had decided to wait for better roads before venturing into the treacherous parking lot.  Steve was a good driver.  For a brief time, he had driven stock cars for a living, and the LAPD had trained him in pursuit driving, but nothing in his experience had prepared the life-long California beach boy for the slick sheet of ice he hit when he turned into the lot.

As soon as the back wheels of the truck hit the mirror-polished surface of ice, it started to fishtail.  It was a rear-wheel-drive vehicle, and with no weight in the empty truck bed, there was no traction from the tires.  With the truck quickly picking up speed as it slalomed down the hill, Steve tried frantically to straighten its path, but he overcorrected, and held his breath as the vehicle slipped sideways and tipped up on two wheels momentarily.  The CD was blaring 'All I Want For Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth.'  When the truck miraculously righted itself, he began to breathe again and continued to steer desperately down the slippery slope.  

Seconds felt like ages as he fought to control his descent, and suddenly, he spotted a large pothole directly in his path at the bottom of the driveway.  He knew at the rate he was traveling, hitting the obstacle could cause a blowout of disastrous consequences.  Turning right to the drive through was out of the question.  He didn't have enough control over his direction to be sure he would actually get through one of the lanes, and there was too much concrete, glass, and electricity for him to feel comfortable crashing the truck to stop his momentum.  

With the pothole looming ever larger and the truck still gaining speed, at the last moment, Steve turned the wheel hard to the left.  The truck swung about one hundred and eighty degrees and continued sliding, backwards now, for a few more feet, before, quite unexpectedly, the tires bit the blacktop and shot the vehicle forward.  Startled, Steve shouted, and then yelled in frustration at his total loss of control as he bounced up over the curb and across the sidewalk to crash into a tall lamppost with an echoing 'bong.'

Suddenly, the truck was still.  With a shaking hand, Steve reached up and cut the ignition.  The CD player shut down and the music stopped.  Glancing down at the floor on the passenger side, he saw that his mother's violin, which had been living under the seat since he'd left class, had survived the ordeal none the worse for wear.  He closed his eyes, thankful to still be in one piece, and took a few deep breaths to steady his shattered nerves.

Finally settled and ready to go make his deposit, he opened his eyes to see the heavy lamppost come crashing down on top of him. 


	7. Out of Tune

Chapter seven:  Out of Tune (November 9th-16th) 

Dawn was just beginning to silver the sky when Steve opened his eyes.  He could see the first hints of sunrise from the corner of his eye, but when he tried to turn his head, it felt like a knife was scraping across his skull.  He was so cold, and his head hurt.  What had happened?  He couldn't remember.  He closed his eyes again because the light hurt too much.  He was alone and frightened, and he knew he was in trouble.  Then everything went dark again.

"Yo, Bry, looka here, man.  This dude must have at least three grand in this bag!"

The next time Steve came to, he heard voices._  Thank God.  Help is here._

"Thirty-five fifty-eight an' sixty-two cent, Reggie."  One of the voices said, "That what it say on the deposit slip."

_The night's receipts, I was going to deposit them._

"Man, that gotta be at least a thou apiece!" Reggie's voice exclaimed.

"Almost."

Steve could hear the sly smile in Bry's voice.  _Invest some of it in a calculator, Reggie._

"Hey, Bry, you really think we should take it?  It ain't ours, man, an' he look like he need some help."

_It was icy.  I hit the lamppost.  My head hurts._

"Reggie, looka him," Bry said condescendingly, "The shape he in, he don't need the money no more an' he beyond helpin'."

_Hey, I'm still alive!  Keep the money if you must, but please call an ambulance!_  Steve fought to give them some sign that he was not dead yet.  He really didn't give a damn about the cash, but he didn't want to die like this.  _Please!  Call an ambulance!_  Everything faded out for a moment.

Reggie studied the large man hunched over the wheel.  The heavy lamppost had dropped directly onto the driver's side of the truck and collapsed the roof in on top of the man.  He was very still, his arms folded over the steering wheel and his head resting face down on his arms as if he had just had time to shield his face from the shattering windshield before the roof caved in and knocked him out, pinning him to the steering column.  He'd been bleeding profusely from his head before they'd arrived, and gelatinous red goo now pooled in the seat beside him and on the dash before him.  His hair and his clothes were stained red, and he was pale, so pale he was almost blue.

Reggie poked him gently in the side, and he didn't make a sound.

Steve felt the gentle prodding of his ribs, and tried to respond, but he couldn't.  He did manage to open his eyes, though, and all he saw was the floor of the truck and a flash of red and black out of the corner of his eye.

_A Chicago Bulls fan?_

"Hey, looka this, Bry," Reggie said, and Steve saw a hand pull his mother's violin out from under the seat.

 He tried to reach out to stop the hand, but his right arm wouldn't respond.  _Please, leave it alone._

"Ya think he a musician?"

_Not yet, but I'm working on it._

"Prob'ly," Bry said.  "Why else he got a violin?"

_It was my mother's.  Please, leave it alone._

"Think we should take it?"

_No!  Oh, please, no.  Take the cash, but leave me the violin.  Oh, God, not Mom's violin.  Dad will be crushed!  _Bry and Reggie still hadn't realized he was awake.  

Bry laughed rudely and asked, "Whatcha want it for?  You gonna take lessons?"

Steve fought desperately to make his body react.  Something, anything, any movement might scare them away.  He knew they could just as likely decide to finish him off, but that was a risk he had to take.

"Nah, man, but we could pawn it.  Get maybe another fifty bucks apiece."

_Not if I can help it._  Steve battled with his uncooperative limbs to make them respond, hoping by force of will to somehow make these two go away.  All that mattered was saving his mother's violin, and he focused all his energy on that one goal.

"Ok, sounds good to me, Reg."

_"PUT IT DOWN AND LEAVE ME ALONE!"  _Suddenly something let loose inside Steve and he managed to tear himself out of the narrow cranny his body had been packed into between the roof of the truck and the steering wheel.  Screaming and shouting, he went at the two young thugs, demanding that they returned his mother's instrument.

"JEEZUS!"  

As Steve stumbled from the truck, bloodied and battered, the thieves began to back off, but Reggie still held the violin.

_"Give me back my instrument!  Take the money and get the hell out of here, but let me have the violin!"_

"Damn, Bry!  I thought you said he dead."

Knowing that all bullies were really cowards at heart, Steve continued to advance, limping heavily on the right side, shouting all the while.  He still had the advantage of having startled them, and if he could just keep them scared, he might get what he wanted.  

_"Just give me the damned instrument, and you can go."_

"So, I was wrong."

_"You sure were, and if I don't get that violin in three seconds, I'm going to bust your head."_

"He must be a nutcase," Reggie said.  "I can't understand a word he sayin'."

_"You're not that dumb, I want the violin!  You can have the money."  _Hoping to drive a wedge between them, he pointed out the mathematical error Bry had let slide earlier.  "_Just make sure your friend here gives you your fair share, over seventeen hundred dollars.  Now, please, give me the violin."_

"Hey, Reggie, this could be fun," Bry said, moving forward again.  

Steve heard the menace in Bry's tone, and instantly knew he had lost his advantage.  Bry was no longer afraid.

"What you mean, Bry?"

"Well, he crazy.  We can do whatever we want to him, an' he'll never be able to ID us 'cause the cops won't understand what he sayin'."

"Well, what should we do?"

Steve felt his blood run cold when Bry cracked his knuckles and moved in with his fists up.  He struggled to bring his arms up to protect his face and midsection, but he was too slow.  His right arm hung useless at his side.  Bry's first punch landed in his solar plexus and knocked the wind right out of him.  He collapsed to the pavement like a sack of stones.

_"No, please, don't."_

"Bry, don't do that," Reggie said, growing nervous.  "He ain't done nothin'.  He just some wacko had an accident.  Let's go, man."

"Damn," Bry cursed, and looking up, Steve saw insanity light his eyes.  "I thought it might be fun to have a live punchin' bag, but I guess he too hurt to take it."  He drew his foot back and landed a vicious kick to Steve's ribs.

A high, thin wail pierced the morning.

"Come on, Bry," Reggie said, tugging his friend's sleeve gently, "Somebody called a amb'lance.  We gotta go now."

Another kick to the ribs, and Bry turned to go.

"After we split the cash, Reg, I know a pawn shop I'll take you to an' we can find out what that violin worth."

As the two young monsters ran off, Steve struggled to his feet and ran after them.  _"No, please, it was my mom's!"_  His head was pounding, his ribs hurt, his right side didn't want to cooperate, and he only made it a few yards before he collapsed.  He heard the siren closing in, and everything went dark again.

_"My mom's violin.  Did you get my mom's violin?"_  The first thought in Steve's mind became the first words out of his mouth when he came to.

"It's all right, Sir, we'll take good care of you.  You're on your way to Community General Hospital."

_"Where's the violin?"_

The paramedic completely ignored Steve's question.  "Pulse ninety, BP 90 over 60.  Conscious but not coherent.  Some right side paralysis."

_"What are you talking about?"_  Steve reached up and grabbed the man by his jacket.  _"What happened to my mother's violin?"_

The paramedic gently pried his hands loose.  "Just relax, Sir.  I know you must be frightened, but everything will be ok."

A wave of pain and dizziness overwhelmed him, and Steve blacked out yet again.

"What have you got?"  Jesse asked, pulling the ambulance doors open.

"White male, mid forties.  Tried to run his truck up a light pole.  We found him in the parking lot on the ground, but it looks like the lamppost collapsed on the driver's side and bashed the roof in on his head."

"My God, Steve!" Jesse gasped getting his first good look at his patient.  "Nurse, have Dr. Sloan paged now!"

Steve was dimly aware of Jesse's voice giving orders and the paramedic giving Jesse his vitals amid the cacophony of ER sounds.  He heard that troubling phrase again, "Conscious but not coherent," and wondered what was wrong.

_"Jess . . ."_

"He's coming round again."

_"Jess.  Tell my dad . . ."_

"Shhh.  Take it easy, buddy.  You'll be ok."

_"Dammit, will you just shut up and listen to me?"_

A troubled frown crossed Jesse's face, and, totally ignoring his friend's plea, he snapped, "I need that CAT scan and a neuro consult NOW!"  Then, turning back to Steve, he said, "Listen to me, buddy.  You've had a bad whack to the head.  You need to just relax and let us take care of you."

Finally realizing that he was going to get nowhere with Jesse until he had been properly treated, Steve nodded and closed his eyes and tried to rest.  When he felt better, when the headache was gone, then he could talk.  He could tell his dad about the violin and about Sara, and he could try to apologize for losing the family heirloom.  He drifted in and out of consciousness for some time.  Every now and then, words floated into his brain from the outside, but they were disconnected and unreal.

Jesse's voice.  ". . . pressure on the brain . . . conscious but not coherent . . . "

A stranger.  ". . . the speech centers . . . paralyzed on the right . . .Broca's area . . . surgery. . ."

His dad.  ". . . take good care of him . . ."

The stranger.  "We will."

He heard a loud buzz and felt something tickling his scalp, and then his head felt cold.  Then he knew nothing.

Jesse's voice.  ". . . strong . . . tolerated the surgery well . . ."

The stranger.  ". . . wait and see . . . therapy . . . lucky to be alive . . ."

Jesse.  ". . . get some rest . . . "

His dad.  "I'll wait around a while in case he wakes up."

Steve slipped back into the darkness, comforted by the knowledge that his father was there.

"Mark," Steve heard Amanda's gentle voice admonish as he drifted from darkness to gray, "you've been here twelve hours straight, and five before that in the waiting room while he was in surgery.  You know you need to get some rest."

"I'm fine, sweetie."

"No, you're not," she disagreed.  "You're exhausted, you're worried, and you haven't eaten.  You know Steve will be angry with Jesse and me when he wakes up if we don't make you get some rest."

_It's ok, Amanda, I know what he's like.  Thanks for trying, though._

"Amanda," Steve heard his father argue back, "I am not leaving here until he wakes up."

"At least go to your office and lie down.  The nurse will page you when he comes around."

"No.  I . . . have to be here.  I have to look in his eyes and see he's . . . still in there."

_I'm here, Dad.  Don't worry._  Steve heard the strain in his father's voice and somewhere found the strength to claw his way to consciousness.  The first thing he became aware of was a thundering headache, but then he remembered the lamppost crashing down atop his truck and knocking him out, and the thudding in his head didn't worry him so much.  Then he felt an alien object invading his throat and felt like he was choking.  Air was forced into his lungs, and his ribs complained in pain, and he knew he was on a ventilator.  His natural reaction was to reach up and try to pull the tube out of his mouth, but gentle hands stopped him.

"Easy, Son.  It's there to help you breathe."

Steve opened his eyes, squinting into the light at first because it hurt, but as his vision adjusted, he opened them fully and looked into his father's eyes.  Amanda didn't seem to be anywhere around, and Steve wondered just how long it had taken him to wake up.  His dad was still holding his hand, and Steve, craving that contact, and remembering his father's need to know he was still there, squeezed tight.  He felt his father squeeze back, and tried his best to smile round the ventilator tube.  Mark smiled back, and for a long time, father and son sat motionless, just looking into each other's eyes.

Steve didn't know when he had fallen asleep, but feeling Jesse release the strap that held the ventilator tube in place woke him.  He looked into his friend's eyes, and was encouraged that Jesse smiled back.

"Hey buddy," Jesse said softly, but in a cheerful voice.  "How are you feeling?"

Steve gave it some thought.  His head ached, and he still had the tube down his throat, but he didn't hurt anywhere else.  He tried to smile to indicate he was ok.

Jesse smiled.  "I'll bet you'll feel better to have that tube out."

Steve nodded very slightly, though his eyes widened with anxiety.  He'd been through the procedure a couple times in the past, and it was always horrendous.

"I know you hate this part, Steve, and I was hoping to have it over with before you woke up, but you just wouldn't cooperate.  You know you'll be much more comfortable when it's over, right?"

He felt his stomach clench in dread and anticipation as Jesse disconnected the hose and took hold of the end of the tube that protruded from his mouth.

"Ok, take a deep breath when I tell you to, and on three, breathe out hard like you're blowing out the candles on a cake, right?"

Unwilling to nod because Jesse had the tube in his hand, Steve opted to give him the thumbs up instead.

"Breathe in . . . one, two, three."

Steve exhaled forcefully, and as he felt the tube pulled up and out of his throat, he coughed and gagged.  As the end of the tube slid through his windpipe and out his mouth, he retched, and Jesse, knowing this moment was coming, had an emesis basin ready and waiting.  He was very sick into the bowl, but since he hadn't eaten much lately, there wasn't much to deposit.

Jesse handed him a glass of water, ordering him to "Rinse and spit."

Without a word, Steve did as he was told, wanting to get the taste and feel of the tube and the vomit out of his mouth as fast as possible.  Then Jesse handed him a toothbrush.  As Steve brushed his teeth, Jesse rinsed the basin.  He brought it back a minute later and held it out for Steve to spit.  Then he handed Steve the water again so he could rinse out the toothpaste.

"Better?" Jesse asked when Steve had finished brushing.

Steve sighed deeply, leaned back into the pillows, smiled contentedly, and nodded.

"But you're still tired, aren't you?"

Steve just nodded again.

He heard a laugh in Jesse's voice as he said, "Well, then, you go ahead and rest.  Someone will wake you in time for lunch."

He felt his friend pat his shoulder, nodded one more time, and was asleep again.

Steve drifted slowly awake, and smiled.  He had a vague recollection of meatloaf and mashed potatoes, fruit cocktail and green beans.  He just loved hospital food.  His throat was still somewhat sore from the respirator tube, but it was out, now, and he was glad to be rid of it.  He just sat for a while, enjoying the sensation of being well rested and relatively free from pain.  When he was feeling a little stronger, he would worry about how he got here and what he had missed since he got hurt, but for the moment, he was happy just to be comfortable.

The sense of comfort dissipated after just a few minutes as he noticed a feeling of heaviness and discomfort low in his abdomen.  It took him a moment to realize what was going on, and then, looking around, he realized he was alone.  He briefly considered buzzing a nurse, but could see no reason why he shouldn't get out of bed and use the bathroom on his own.  Carefully, he put the safety railing down, and swung his legs over the side of the bed.  He was still on an IV, and he knew he had to take that with him, so he reached out to pull the pole over close to him and found he couldn't coordinate his movements enough to grasp it.  He figured he must still be under the anesthetic, so he tried again with his left hand and succeeded.  Then he tried to stand.

He was surprised how quickly the carpet came up to meet him.

From his position on the floor of the hospital room, it took him a moment to get reoriented.  By the time he had his bearings and was struggling to his feet again, a pretty little redheaded nurse had come in.

"Lieutenant Sloan!" she gasped, "What are you doing out of bed?"

_"I just needed to use the bathroom,"_ Steve replied, _"I guess I kinda lost my balance."  _Grinning sheepishly, he asked, _"Do you think you could help me up?"_

The nurse came over beside him and pressed the buzzer then slipped an arm around him.  "Let's just get you back into bed."

_"Ok, but first, can I please use the bathroom?"_  Steve was shocked at how weak he felt, especially on the right, and with growing horror realized he would probably need her help to get on and off the seat.

As if she hadn't even heard him, she helped him to his feet and guided him to the bed.

_"Look, I need to get to the toilet, soon," _Steve said becoming increasingly agitated as his need quickly grew.

Another nurse entered and, as she forced Steve into the bed and covered him up, the redhead said, "Get doctors Travis and Sloan in here, now."

_"Please, just let me use the facilities, and I promise I'll get back into bed," _Steve pleaded, trying his best to get up again.

The redhead pushed back on his shoulders, and gently pinned him to the bed.  "Lieutenant, you have to calm down.  Just relax and wait for Dr. Travis and your father.  You're all right, and they will be here in just a minute."

Steve was beginning to suffer abdominal cramps, and he struggled frantically to get out of bed, shouting at the nurse to let him go, but she carried on trying to soothe him, ignoring his pleas, and holding him down.  He knew he must be weak as a kitten for the tiny woman to be able to restrain him by herself, but that didn't stop him from fighting her.  Finally, Jesse came in, and Steve was sure relief was in sight.  Jesse might be a little over protective, but he wasn't the sadistic control freak this woman was.

"Doctor!  Thank goodness you're here," the nurse gasped.  Lieutenant Sloan might be weak, but after several minutes of struggling with him, she was beginning to tire.

"I came in and he was sitting on the floor as if he'd tried to get out of bed.  When I initially helped him up, he was quite cooperative, but he's been struggling more and more ever since."

_"Because I have to use the bathroom, you stupid woman!"_ Steve shouted impatiently.  _"Jess, I can't wait much longer, will you tell her to let me go?"_

"Steve, you need to calm down," Jesse said gently, taking over for the nurse who ran out to get help.  Jesse gently massaged his friend's shoulders.  "Be still and relax buddy, and it will be ok, otherwise, we'll have to sedate you."

_"Not you, too!  Just let me use the damned john and I'll be fine!"_

His dad came in then, and stood by the bed opposite Jesse.  He took Steve's hand and squeezed it gently, saying in a smooth even tone, "Son, just relax.  Take deep breaths, and calm down."

From the look on Mark's face, he knew he would get neither answers nor assistance from that quarter either, and he redoubled his efforts.  He couldn't understand why everyone was intent on keeping him in bed, and, at the moment, he really didn't care.  He only had a few moments left before he embarrassed himself, and he wasn't about to do that if he could possibly avoid it.  There would be plenty of time later for questions and answers.  Right now, he just needed relief.

_"Dad, why can't I get out of bed?  What's wrong with me?"_  Steve was becoming genuinely frightened now.  He couldn't understand why he was being restrained.  He remembered his accident, but he hadn't been that badly hurt, had he?  Of course not, if he could continue fighting back for as long as he had been, he must not be too seriously injured.  Jesse was breathing hard, now, and Steve knew, if he could wear out the young doctor, he must be doing all right.

Then he saw his father pull out a syringe and a vial and give Jesse a troubled, questioning look.  Jesse just nodded, then said, "You have to Mark.  He's not calming down, and he's still not coherent.  Until we can get him to be still for some testing, we don't know how aware he is of what's going on around him and he'll only get more upset."

_"Dad!  No!  Dammit, Jesse, I am aware of what's going on.  I am very aware that I have to use the bathroom, NOW!"_

"This is just a little Versed, Son," Mark said soothingly as he slipped the needle into Steve's IV catheter and depressed the plunger.  "It will calm you down and relax you," he said.  "You'll fall asleep, and wake again in an hour or so, feeling much calmer, and this time, Son, I promise you won't wake up alone."

Steve continued to fight and struggle for as long as he could, but the Versed was stronger than his stubborn streak, and in less than five minutes, he was out.

As Steve's thrashing ceased, Jesse let him go and stood up.  Straightening his tie, he looked to Mark and said, "I wonder what set him off."

Mark shrugged.  "We have no way of knowing since he can't tell us, Jesse," he pulled up a chair and settled in, "but I'm going to be here next time he wakes up so he isn't all alone."

"Mark, you had no choice but to go," Jesse advised his mentor and friend.  "Steve was stable and resting, and the ER was swamped with victims from that bus wreck.  We needed you."

"I know, Jesse, but so did Steve, and I am determined to be here for him next time he wakes up."

Knowing that it could be no other way, Jesse just gave his friend a pat on the shoulder, checked Steve over briefly, made a notation on his chart and left the father and son alone together.

Mark looked down at his son.  Even in his drugged slumber, Steve seemed troubled.  Anxious to soothe away the worrisome look on Steve's face, he gently stroked a hand over his son's forehead.  The rough gauze of the head bandage wasn't nearly as comforting to Mark as the soft feel of his son's hair against his hand, but slowly, the furrows on Steve's brow eased away, and Mark felt better knowing he was helping his son through his presence and his touch.

Steve moaned as he woke.  

"Hey there, Son," his father greeted him softly, "How are you feeling?"

_"Don't know, Dad."_

"You look like you're hurting."

Steve just nodded.  He had a thundering headache and for some reason he remembered having an altercation with Jesse.  What had they quarreled about?  Sara?  Yes, but he had called and apologized for that.  Then what had happened?  He'd had an accident.  Those two punks had taken the deposits from Bob's and . . . something.  He'd remember it later.

"Can I get you something?"

Steve shook his head no, and his eyes slid shut.  He wasn't hungry or thirsty, just confused.

He'd had lunch here at the hospital, in his bed, then he'd fallen back to sleep.  When he woke up, he'd needed to do something, and that redheaded nurse had forced him back into bed.  Then Jesse had held him down as his father had sedated him.

Suddenly, his eyes flew open as he remembered what he had so desperately needed to do.  He threw back the covers and tried to sit up, but the world began to list badly and he collapsed back against the pillows.  

"Easy, Son, just give yourself a chance to wake up completely."

Then Steve realized that he no longer needed to go.  Half a moment later, he knew what must have happened after he succumbed to the drugs, and he felt the hot blush creeping up his face, mortified to know someone else had had to deal with it while he was asleep.

He felt his father stroking his forehead gently, and pulled away angrily.  His dad and Jesse were to blame for his humiliation.  Why hadn't they just let him use the bathroom?

"Steve, listen to me, Son," his father said, moving to stand in his line of sight.  

Furious and ashamed, Steve rolled over and pulled up the covers, for some reason that was harder to do than usual.  _"Just leave me alone, Dad, I'm tired."_

His father came around to the other side of the bed to face him again.  "Steve, please just listen to me a minute.  I know you're angry with me for sedating you, but I had no choice."

_"You could have let me use the commode, Dad."  _Steve struggled to roll over to the other side, stubborn and reluctant to face his father so soon after the mortifying turn of events.

A moment later, Mark was there again, and as Steve made to roll over once more, he put a hand on his shoulder and used 'that tone.'  

"Steven Michael Sloan, you listen to me.  I am trying very hard to explain some things you need to know."

Steve sighed in frustration and finally looked his father in the eye, challenging him to come up with a good explanation for what he'd done._  "I'm listening."_

"Son, do you remember why you're here?"

Steve thought about it a moment.  He remembered the accident and the two thugs who stole the money from Bob's and . . . 

The violin.  

He felt tears sting his eyes.  Suddenly overwrought, Steve began to apologize.  _"Oh, Dad, I'm so sorry.  They got mom's violin!  I tried to stop them, but I couldn't.  I'm sorry, Dad.  I'm sorry."_

Determined that he would not be forced to sedate his child again, Mark quickly drew Steve into a tight hug.  "It's ok, Steve, you're all right now.  Listen to me, Son, you're ok.  Everything will be all right, do you hear me?"  He continued rambling for several minutes until he was sure his son was calm again.

When he drew away and looked into Steve's eyes, the tears were gone, but the confusion was still evident.  He knew, until he could get Steve to understand his condition, there would be more outbursts.  This was the first time in a week Steve had been alert enough to attempt any type of explanation.

"Ok, Son, listen to me.  I'm going to tell you some things and ask you some questions.  When I ask you a yes or no question, I want you to nod or shake your head, ok?"

_"Ok, Dad.  I can do that."_

"Steve, I'm sorry.  I don't understand you.  Nod your head or shake it no, do you understand what I want you to do?"

Still puzzled, but amused by his father's little game, Steve smiled and nodded his head.

"Ok, Son.  A week ago, you had an accident in your truck . . . "

_"It's been a WEEK?"  _Steve sat up, stunned,_  "That long?  Why don't I remember any of it?"_

"Steve, can you just hold on a minute and let me finish explaining?  I know you're getting upset and frustrated, but I think you'll understand more if you let me finish, ok?"

_"All right, Dad.  I'll wait, but I can't believe I've lost whole week."_

"Is that a yes or a no, Son?  Can you let me finish?"

Sighing, Steve nodded.  This game was quickly losing its appeal.

"You suffered a head injury, Son, and you required brain surgery."

Steve's hand flew to his head, and he was shocked to feel the gauze bandage covering his head for the first time.  Suddenly, he had a vague recollection of having his head shaved.

His father smiled at him and said, "It will grow back."

Steve frowned and nodded, suddenly very worried about what else he might not have noticed before now.  He became even more concerned when his father took a deep breath and took hold of both his hands.

"You have some brain damage, Steve."

Steve's eyes went wide and his breathing quickened.

_"What's wrong with me, Dad?  What happened?  How bad is it?"_

"Son, I can't understand what you're saying.  I'm sorry," Mark said, squeezing his son's hands tighter.  "I'm sure you want to know what's the matter, so I'm going to try to explain that first.  Ok?"

Steve nodded, too frightened to talk, and suddenly remembering that his father had told him to just nod and shake his head for yes and no.

"Your injury has caused a condition called aphasia.  Aphasia is a problem with comprehending and producing language.  Do you understand what I have told you so far?"

Steve grew very still for a moment, then he nodded, just once.

"Ok, Son.  There are three basic types of aphasia though they have a lot of variations in symptoms and severity.  The three types are expressive, receptive, and global."

Steve nodded without being prompted.

"We're going to need to do some other tests to determine just what your condition is, but the fact that you seem able to indicate your understanding of what I am saying tells me your condition is probably expressive aphasia."

_"Is that why no one seemed to realize that I needed to use the bathroom?"_

"Son, I'm sorry, I don't understand what you are saying.  When you talk, does what you say make sense to you?"

Steve spoke again and really listened to what he said.

_"I don't know, Dad."_

Steve fell silent, and Mark waited patiently for him to respond with a nod or a shake of his head.

_"What if I don't remember what words are supposed to sound like?  What if the noises I'm making make sense to me but don't mean anything?"_

Steve thought a few minutes about the 'words' he'd said.  He couldn't ever remember having heard them before.  He knew what he'd meant to say, but what came out of his mouth didn't sound at all like what went through his head.  It had been complete gibberish, like a band out of tune.  Suddenly, he was very frightened.

_"Dad?"_

His father just looked at him.

_"Dad!"_

His father continued to wait for a response.

_"Mark Sloan, if you can tell I am saying your name, please say so," _Steve pleaded.

He knew the words were nonsense, but when his dad said, "Son?  Do you hear words when you talk?" he was crushed.

Wide eyed, terrified, and on the verge of tears, Steve shook his head no, then, he leaned forward and rested his head on his father's shoulder, expressing a need for comfort that required no words.__


	8. Broken Strings

Chapter Eight:  Broken Strings 

**(November 18th)**

"Good morning, Lieutenant Sloan," said an obscenely cheerful young man as the orderly took Steve's breakfast tray away.  "My name is Marcus, and it's my job to help you learn to talk again."

The young man had curly, light brown hair and carried a black leather backpack slung over his right shoulder.  He held out his hand to shake, but Steve just looked at it as if it were something filthy.  Then he folded his arms, turned his head, and tried to ignore Marcus.  He couldn't even talk to his father and friends.  He'd be damned if he'd embarrass himself by blabbing nonsensically at some stranger barely half his age.

Steve was miserable.  Even ordering breakfast had been an ordeal, for though Steve had an unrestricted menu, nothing had appealed to him this morning, and he had spent the first hour of his day trying and failing to communicate to his dad that he just wanted a sausage and egg breakfast sandwich from Bob's.  When he'd finally lost patience with himself and his father, he'd shoved the hospital menu into Mark's hands and jabbed a finger into his father's chest.

"You want me to decide?"

A nod.

"Steve, are you sure?"

Another nod, then he had rolled over and pulled up the covers until his tray arrived.  The cereal, coffee, toast, and fruit had filled him up, but he still wanted that sausage and egg sandwich.

Marcus laughed slightly, not at all put off by the chilly reception, and said, "I just love a challenge.  That's why my supervisor assigned me to your case.  Your reputation precedes you Lieutenant, and I am not easily deterred, so, you can sit in bed and sulk and let me annoy you for endless hours, or you can cooperate for a few hours every day and then I will leave you alone.  Either way, you're going to see a lot of me, and unless you try to speak, I will never shut up.  So, you can sit there and try to ignore me and I will ramble on, or you can work with me and we will take turns talking and then I will go on my way to pester the next hapless patient into cooperating.  If it were me I would want to get something for all the aggravation, so I would probably try to cooperate because by now I would have figured out that I wasn't going to get any peace until I managed to accomplish something.  My job is to get you talking again, and I'll manage that to some extent with or without you cooperation, but if you work with me, it will be much easier for both of us and we will both feel much more successful . . . "

_"Shut up and leave me alone!"_  Steve growled, knowing the words made no sense.  

Marcus hushed for a couple of minutes, waiting for Steve to say something more.  Steve felt no compulsion to fill the silence, though, and instead, just sat there glowering and watching his toes twitch under the blanket.

After breakfast, he had wanted to shower and shave, but he had nothing to change into and it had taken him fifteen minutes of miming and grunting to express the simple sentence, 'Ask Amanda to get clothes.'  By that time, of course, she had already left her house, and her cell phone was off.  His father had offered to buy him a set of pajamas at the hospital shop, but they would still need washing before he could wear them, and he really wanted his sweat suit anyway.  So, he had refused the offer, and now, here he was, unwashed and unshaven, still in the thin hospital gown, and feeling thoroughly sorry for himself until someone had a chance to go back to the beach house for something to wear.

When Steve remained silent and uncooperative, rather than leaving him alone in his dark mood, Marcus grinned, knowing his non-stop conversation would eventually wear the older man down.  He started to rattle away again.  "Now, I couldn't understand what you said a minute ago, Steve.  May I call you Steve?  Tell you what, until you say otherwise, I will assume that it's ok for me to call you Steve, and you can call me Marcus, ok?  Anyway, Steve, I have no idea what you just shouted at me, but I'm betting you were telling me to shut up.  See, I guessed that's what you said, Steve, because I talk an awful lot, and people are forever telling me 'Shut up, Marcus,' so I'll just assume that's what you said, and I'll offer you a deal, Steve.  You try to work with me, every day, Steve, and I will shut up as much as possible.  But, Steve, if you sit there and sulk, I will drive you screaming bug-eyed nuts because to me, silence is just a void begging to be filled.  I can't bear to have things too quiet, Steve, so if no one else is talking I just have to.  Do you understand what I'm saying, Steve?"

Marcus was deliberately using his patient's name a lot more than necessary.  He knew it was virtually impossible to ignore the sound of one's own name, even when one didn't want to hear what was being said.  Also, even if he couldn't get Steve to respond to him today, by forcing him to attend to the words he was hearing, Marcus was laying a foundation for when Steve did feel like working on his speech.  Though he never talked down to his patients and always tried to preserve their dignity by treating them with respect, Marcus believed that, in some ways, patients with aphasia were much like infants.  If they were spoken to often and properly, they would learn to speak much more quickly and coherently once they started to verbalize again.  He had no research to back his beliefs, but he'd always had good results, and usually no one questioned his methods.

As Marcus waited for a response, Steve sighed, shifted uncomfortably in the bed, and eyed the young man suspiciously.  He did not want to start talking gibberish in front of a total stranger.  Since his father had explained his condition yesterday, he, Jesse, and Amanda had been very patient about trying to understand Steve's needs.  He'd never been good at charades, but now that it was necessary to communicate, he found he was quite skilled at putting on a dumb show in order to get what he needed, and it was much easier and less embarrassing than babbling at his friends and his father and hoping they might blindly guess what he wanted.

"Well, Steve, I guess I'll take that as a no," Marcus chattered on when Steve flatly refused to accept or reject his offer.  "That's really such a shame, Steve, because the sooner you start and the harder you work, the faster and more completely you will recover, Steve.  I really do like helping patients, and they usually find I am very likeable when they want to work, Steve, because I want to see them get better.  It's just when people want to sit around and feel sorry for themselves that I annoy the blue goo out of them.  Well, Steve, I have blocked out four hours for today and six for tomorrow, so you are going to be seeing a lot of me.  Might as well get used to the sound of my voice, Steve.  Hey, Steve, let me show you a picture of my cat.  His name is Cotton. . ."

Steve was growing increasingly frustrated with the vapid young man.  The continuous jabbering and repetition of his name would have annoyed him in any circumstances, but Steve found it particularly depressing that Marcus could blather on incessantly about nothing of consequence when he himself had to struggle to communicate the idea, 'I need to pee,' without resorting to rude and embarrassing body language.  His mounting resentment suddenly burst forth.

_"Shut up!  Shut up!  Shut up!  Leave me alone, dammit!  I just want to be left alone!  Go away!  Please, just go away and leave me be!"  _

While the words were unintelligible, the tone, virtually a sob, clearly said, 'Go to hell!'  Marcus fell unexpectedly silent, and for a moment, the only sound in the room was Steve's ragged, distressed breathing.

Marcus studied Steve Sloan as he struggled to control his temper.  Everything he'd been told about this particular patient indicated that he was an emotional time bomb, keeping things inside until the pressure of his feelings became too much to suppress, at which point he would explode on the next poor soul who happened to cross his path.  In his work as a speech therapist, Marcus had had such patients burst into tears on several occasions.  He'd also had a couple of patients hit him when he'd pushed them to the very limits of their endurance.  Either way, he usually saw it coming, so when he realized Steve was aching to sob out his frustration and beat the tar out of his speech therapist simultaneously, he knew he had to diffuse the situation quickly or he would probably be injured.  More importantly, until Steve could let go of the embarrassment and self-pity that was controlling him, he would never learn to talk again.

Opening the door to the small bedside cupboard, Marcus took out the cold, stainless steel bedpan and gave it to Steve.  Caught by surprise, Steve immediately ceased his ranting and looked up to Marcus, holding the bedpan in both hands like a child who'd just won a goldfish at the ping pong ball toss at the fair and wasn't quite sure what to do with the fishbowl.

"Throw it!"  Marcus ordered.

Steve continued to stare up at him in confusion, breathing heavily with the strain of containing his emotions, his lips pressed firmly together in a straight line.

"You're angry and frustrated at your own difficulties, and annoyed with me.  Right now, you want to curse like a drunken sailor who's just had his shore leave cut short, so throw the bedpan.  It will make a hell of a noise, and you'll feel much better."

For a moment more, Steve stared at Marcus, then, with all his strength, he hurled the bedpan across the room.  It clanged against the wall, ricocheted off the TV, hit the floor with a bong, and clattered away under the vacant bed.

"Good!"  Marcus encouraged him.  Handing Steve the plastic urinal, he said, "Now throw this."

Steve did so without hesitation, and it made a hollow 'thop' against the wall, and suddenly he was sobbing hard.  In the next several seconds, the emesis basin from the cupboard, a motor cross magazine Steve had been leafing through, the full plastic water pitcher, and its matching plastic cup, joined the bedpan and urinal on the other side of the room.  A mystery novel Mark had been reading, Steve's two pillows, and the TV remote control which shattered on impact quickly followed them.  Then Steve shoved his over-the-bed table away hard.  As it rolled away, one of the wheels caught the leg of the bed and it toppled over.  When it hit the floor, the sliding top popped off and fell away with a satisfying bang.

Out of objects to abuse, Steve kicked away his blankets and began to beat the mattress with his fists.  Great heaving sobs wrenched themselves out of his body and, as Marcus pressed the button that slowly lowered the head of the bed, Steve instinctively rolled over on his stomach and covered his head with his arms as he continued to wail.

"What in the world is going on here?"

Marcus looked up to see Dr. Sloan, confused, angry, and impatient, glaring at him and waiting for a good explanation for why he had made Steve cry.  Steve went on pitching his fit.

As Marcus tried to explain, Dr. Sloan crossed the room to comfort his son.  Before the speech therapist could speak, the older man said, "Never mind.  I'll deal with you later.  Wait at the nurse's station."

Marcus nodded and left without another word.

Though he'd always had a temper, Steve had never been subject to tantrums as a child.  Now Mark found himself needing to soothe his distressed offspring as he threw a royal fit.  When Carol had been consumed by anger as a little girl, she used to kick, scratch, and bite anyone who tried to subdue her.  Mark had been a younger man then, and his five-year-old daughter had been too small to do much damage, but this was another matter entirely.  He briefly considered administering a mild sedative, but rejected the idea immediately.  Steve was still feeling betrayed from the incident the day before yesterday and might never forgive him if he drugged him again so soon.

Mark uncertainly made his way over to his son.  When he got beside the bed, he crouched down and laid a hand gently in the middle of Steve's back.  Speaking softly he told his child, "Steve, Son, it's going to be all right."

Without warning, a long, lean arm lashed out, wrapped tightly around his neck, and pulled him close so quickly his face struck the safety rail that was still up around the bed.  Startled by the unanticipated attack, tasting blood, and fighting for air, Mark struggled to pull away, but then the other arm came up and wrapped around him, and as he managed to rise away from the mattress, Steve clung to him and pressed his face against his chest, still sobbing piteously.

Suddenly realizing that his son was not angry, but frightened and hurting, Mark stopped pulling away and instead lowered the safety rail and sat on the mattress beside his distraught child.  As he sat rocking Steve gently on the bed, Mark rubbed slow circles on his back with one hand and sought out the call button to page a nurse with the other.  

"Bring me a blanket, please, Elena" he requested when the petite redhead from the day before came to see what he needed.

Gradually, as Mark rocked him and murmured soothing words Steve's sobbing tapered off.  When Elena returned with a soft cotton blanket and draped it gently around his shoulders, he snuggled into it and nestled closer into his father's arms.

_"I'm so scared, Dad," _Steve murmured in a choked voice, trusting his father to understand how he felt even if he couldn't comprehend a word he said.  _"I just wanted a sausage and egg sandwich for breakfast and then to change into my sweats and to be left alone, but I couldn't tell anyone that.  Then that jerk Marcus came in, and he wouldn't shut up and he wouldn't leave me be, and I couldn't tell him to go away."_

As Lieutenant Sloan continued talking, he grew more upset again, and feeling superfluous, Elena decided to make herself scarce.  She had cared for Steve Sloan before when his injuries had been much more serious, but he had never seemed quite so fragile as he did now.  As she walked to the supply closet to get a new pitcher and a cup for Steve's room she couldn't help but feel guilty for the indignity he had suffered the other day.  Dr. Travis had been very kind when he told her what had happened after they had sedated Steve.

"Hey," Jesse had said softly as she cried about what they had done to poor Lieutenant Sloan, "don't feel so bad.  I'm his best friend, and I didn't get it either.  He'll understand.  He might be mad for a while, but he'll understand."

Elena filled the pitcher with water and carried it and the cup to the room.  When she arrived, Steve had almost stopped crying and Dr. Sloan was cradling him in his arms.  She could tell the younger Sloan was emotionally spent and physically exhausted from his outburst.  Wanting him to rest comfortably, she took the fresh pillows off the vacant bed on the other side of the room and placed them behind Steve so he didn't need to use the ones that had gotten soaked on the floor when he had thrown them into the mess from the water pitcher.  Then she poured him a cup of water and handed it to his father.  

Elena stood quietly off to the side, as Dr. Sloan lifted the cup to Steve's lips and steadied it for him as he drank.

"All right, now?" Mark asked.

Steve nodded and lay back against the pillows, utterly worn out.

"You're going to be fine, Son," Dr. Sloan murmured as he cupped his son's face in his hand and stroked away a final tear with his thumb.  "It will take a while, but you'll be just fine."

Steve's eyes drifted closed, and his chin sank to his chest.  When his breathing grew deep and even, Dr. Sloan looked to Elena and asked the young nurse, "Will you sit with him for a few minutes?  I need to talk to Marcus, now."

The old doctor's tone did not bode well for the speech therapist, and, not wishing to incur the same wrath from the protective parent, Elena simply nodded and took the seat Dr. Sloan had vacated.

"What in the hell did you do to my son?" Mark raged at Marcus as the speech therapist followed him into the nurses' break room.

"I got him to let go," Marcus said.

"Yes, I see that," Mark snapped back, "Did you not realize that he was holding on to the end of his rope as it was?"

"No, Sir, that's not what he was doing," Marcus argued.  "He was clinging to the mailbox, trying to avoid getting on the bus that would take him off to his first day of school."

Mark was still too angry to smile, but he did find it curious that Marcus would choose that particular analogy.  On his first day of school, Steve had done precisely what Marcus just described.  He'd only been convinced to get on the bus when Mark had agreed to ride with him.  Two stops later, when had Steve noticed that he was the only little boy whose daddy was riding on the big yellow school bus with him, he had looked at his father and said, 'I'm ok, Daddy.  You can go home now.'  Mark had gotten off the bus then and happily walked the two blocks home, content in the knowledge that his son was ready for school now.

Marcus knew immediately that he had chosen the right metaphor because Dr. Sloan became suddenly quiet.  The man was still angry, to be sure, but now he was also interested in what Marcus had to say.  If he chose his words carefully, Marcus knew he would be working with Steve Sloan again this very afternoon.

"Dr. Sloan, you told me yourself that your son is a very proud and stubborn man."

Mark nodded, "That he is, which has me wondering what it took for you to push him over the edge so quickly."

"I promise you, Sir, all I did was talk."  At Mark's skeptical look he elaborated, "I never said a single rude or unkind word to him.  I just told him how things were going to be.  I talked, and kept talking until I got a reaction."

"And his reaction was to burst into tears and start throwing things.  Is that correct?"

"Well, yes, Sir, with a little encouragement."

Mark didn't say a word, he just raised a questioning eyebrow, and Marcus explained.

"First, he tried real hard to ignore me.  Then I think he told me to shut up.  He eventually lost patience and started yelling at me.  Then he stopped yelling, probably because he was frustrated that I couldn't understand him."

Marcus stopped then, and Mark waited a moment.  When the young man did not continue, Mark said, "Well, I am still waiting to hear how Steve came to be throwing things and having a temper tantrum."

"Well, your son was refusing to try to talk but I could tell he was feeling wretched.  He looked like he really wanted to curse me out, and curse my mother, and my father, and my cat, and all my kin, and the next ten generations of my progeny, but he just couldn't get the words out.  I thought he might even want to hit me, so I gave him the bedpan."

Mark rubbed his temple.  He was beginning to understand now how the young man's banter could upset his son, especially when Marcus was being deliberately talkative.

"What did you hope to accomplish by giving him a bedpan?  Did you intend for him to throw it _at_ you?"

"No, Sir, though I am sure he may have wanted to.  What I did do was give him a way to effectively express himself, Sir."

Pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut against the impending headache, Mark commanded simply, "Explain."

"Have you ever thrown a bedpan, Sir?"

"No, I have not, why?"

"Well, it makes a wonderfully angry sound, just one helluva a noise, no matter what it hits, and it leaves no doubt that the individual throwing it is feeling really pissy.  By giving Steve that bedpan to throw, I gave him the means to tell me exactly how he was feeling, and everything else that followed it came out of him naturally.  Dr. Sloan, I'll bet you a month's salary that when I go back this afternoon, Steve will be feeling much better and will probably be ready to work."

Mark narrowed his eyes at the young man and said, "I'm sure he will be feeling better.  He has just cried himself to sleep and will be well rested this afternoon, but you probably won't be seeing him, Marcus."

It took Marcus half a second to understand what he was being told.  "You're going to remove me from Steve's case, aren't you?"

Mark chuckled at Marcus' naïveté, "I don't have the authority to make such a unilateral decision, Marcus, but I imagine your supervisor will agree with me once I tell her what you've achieved in your first session with my son."

Marcus heard no mirth in Dr. Sloan's laughter, and finally he realized just how angry the senior physician was.  For a man who was proudly eccentric, he was certainly closed-minded to unconventional methods now.

"I guess it's different when it's one of your own."

"Excuse me?"

Marcus started at Dr. Sloan's inquiry.  He hadn't realized he'd muttered aloud.  Still, Dr. Sloan's reputation for fairness was as great as his reputation for weirdness, and Marcus figured if he expressed himself well, he might still have another chance to work with Steve.

"May I speak candidly, doctor?"

"I would hope so, Marcus.  I am still waiting for a satisfactory explanation of what just occurred in my son's room."

"About one million Americans have aphasia, Dr. Sloan.  It's more common that Parkinson's Disease." 

"I am aware of that, Marcus, but what does it have to do with your provoking my son to tears?" Mark asked impatiently.

"May I continue, Sir?"

Mark nodded wearily.

"In 1988, the National Aphasia Association did a survey to determine the needs of adult aphasia patients and the barriers they encountered in their treatment and recovery.  Half of the individuals questioned had been in speech therapy for over a year, but seventy-two percent of them were still unable to work.  The twenty-eight percent who have gone back to work had to take jobs with reduced demands on their communications skills.  Seventy percent of them felt people avoided them because it was too hard to talk to them, and sixty percent felt most people didn't understand enough about aphasia."

"Those are some very grim figures, but they are fourteen years old," Mark said, "and I still don't see what it has to do with what happened in Steve's room."

"First, the fact that the figures are so old shows how neglected this disorder is.  The fact remains that people with aphasia are often treated as if they are mentally ill or retarded.  Their friends drift away, they avoid public outings, and they suffer emotionally both from the social isolation and the changes they are forced to make in their daily lives."

"I still don't see . . . "

"I know you're waiting for me to explain about Steve, Dr. Sloan, and I will in a minute," Marcus interrupted, anxious to make his point.  

"Aside from the aphasia itself, the biggest problems most of my patients face are fear and frustration.  They are afraid of looking foolish, of making mistakes, and of being ridiculed; and they are frustrated beyond all reason with their limitations.  Usually, their minds function well, and that is the real hell of this disorder.  They remember everything they experienced before the onset of aphasia, skills and routines that they learned as children, special family events and traditions, personal and national tragedies, everything about life.  It's just that with aphasia, they can't communicate their thoughts anymore.  Even worse, with most other disabilities we can encourage patients to talk about their fears and concerns with their friends, family, and health care providers, but in aphasic patients, that option is gone."

"I think I see where you're headed now, Marcus, but I want you to tell me what that all has to do with Steve's outburst."

"Dr. Sloan, I know I've just cited a lot of statistics and made many generalizations that may not apply to Steve, but that kind of life is a very real possibility for him if he doesn't accept treatment now.  If symptoms of aphasia persist more than two or three months after the initial onset, most patients will probably never recover completely."

"My son is not 'most patients,' Marcus."

"I know that, Sir, and that is why I did what I did with him today."

At Mark's frown, the young man elaborated.  "I usually don't make my patients cry on the first day, Sir.  With most people, it takes us a good week to work up to that, if it ever happens."

Mark did not smile at his small joke, so he hurried on.  "Steve was about a heartbeat away from exploding when I walked in, Dr. Sloan.  I don't know what happened before I got there, but he had already had a rough day.  Given the state he was in, none of my diagnostic tests would have shown accurate results.  I had to make him get whatever was bothering him out of his system.  I just didn't expect his response to be so intense."

Mark nodded, satisfied with the young man's explanation if not the results.  "My son has never, ever, done anything halfway, Marcus."

"So I have found out," Marcus agreed, "and that will work in his favor when he starts therapy, whoever he works with, but only if he can manage his emotions effectively."

"I agree with that, but, in your opinion, just how does pushing him to a breakdown like he had today help him?"

"Simply put, I have seen him at his worst already.  If you let me see him again this afternoon, I can explain why I pushed so hard and I think he'll understand.  If you find another therapist, that person will have to start over with building rapport."

"And I am sure it will take ages for them to establish the kind of relationship you have with my son, won't it?"  Mark replied sarcastically.

"Ok, I had that coming," Marcus agreed, a bit shamefaced, "but try to think about it like a physician instead of a worried parent, Sir."

When doctor Sloan glared at him, Marcus knew he was almost at the limit of any latitude the senior doctor had been willing to give him and he needed to wrap up quickly.  

"I know you are angry with me for upsetting your son, Dr. Sloan," Marcus admitted, "but if Steve knows he hasn't scared me off, then he can give his therapy everything he's got and not have to worry about losing his temper or getting all muddled up around me any more.  Do you really think he would be that comfortable with anyone else you might bring in?"

Mark sighed and rubbed his forehead.  He was on information overload now, and his head was aching.  Marcus had told him far more than he really needed to know about aphasia, and he was terribly worried for Steve.  Given the state in which he had just found Steve, he wasn't at all sure how his proud, stubborn son would react to seeing Marcus again so soon.  

"Maybe Steve should be allowed to make the decision for himself," Marcus suggested softly.

Dr. Sloan looked up at him then and said, "I will give you five minutes to convince him, if he doesn't become too upset before your time is up, but I will not leave you alone with him until he tells me it's ok.  Be back here at one, and you can see him after lunch."

"Yes, Sir," Marcus said, but he was already speaking to empty air as Dr. Sloan had left to go back to his son.

The rest of Steve's morning was uneventful, mostly because he slept until eleven.  When he woke up, he was surprised to find he had attracted an audience.  Not only was his father there watching over him, but Amanda, Jesse, Cheryl, and Alex were there as well.  Steve smiled, profoundly comforted to know he had these people who cared about him so much that they would even sit and watch him sleep just to be there for him when he was not well.

"So, how are you feeling, buddy," Jesse was the first to speak.

Steve smiled, yawned, stretched, and pressed the button that elevated his head.  He considered the answer to Jesse's question a moment, and decided the answer was grateful.  He was undeniably grateful to have such good friends, but how to tell them?

As he thought hard about how to communicate his response, Steve was conscious of everyone waiting patiently for him to answer.  He had gotten used to the long silences since he had woken up from the sedation two days ago, and had quickly learned that he was expected to fill them.  Finally, he pointed at each of the five people in the room, then he drew a heart over his own breast and pointed to himself.  Once that gesture had had a moment to sink in, he smiled, wrapped his arms around himself in imitation of a hug, and again pointed to each of his visitors.

For a moment, he found himself looking back at five very confused faces, then Cheryl broke into a brilliant grin.  "Of course we love you, Steve," she said, moving over to his side to put a hand on his arm.  "That's why we're here."

He put his free hand over hers to keep her there and shook his head to indicate that she had only gotten half the message.  At a loss over how to communicate the rest of his thought, he finally just pulled her into a gentle bear hug.

_"Thank you,"_ he said, hoping she wouldn't miss the point by trying to understand the words.  He felt like a violin with broken strings and wished fervently that he had a better way to communicate.

When she pulled back, Cheryl smiled at him again, a bit unsure of herself, and said, "I'm not sure what you said, Steve, but thanks for the hug."

Brightening instantly, Steve snapped his fingers and pointed at her nodding.

"What?  I said something?"  Cheryl was a little excited now.  "You want another hug?"

Steve shook his head vehemently and tried to gesture to her that it was something else she said.

"What did I say?" she asked, and Steve rolled his eyes and threw his hands into the air as if to say, 'Do you really expect me to tell you?'

"You said thanks for the hug," Amanda told her.

Steve snapped his fingers again and pointed to Amanda, then he made the hugging gesture again and pointed to each of them in turn.

"Son, you're welcome," Mark said, grinning when Steve nodded emphatically, pleased that they had figured it out.  "You know we'll all be here for you anytime."

Steve felt a huge lump form in his throat.  He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and swallowed hard.  Then he nodded, and made the hugging gesture once more.

"You're welcome," Mark said again.

"Oh, hey," Alex said after giving them all a moment, "I brought this for you."  He set a suitcase up on the bed beside Steve.  "Your dad gave me a list of things you might want, and I picked it up on my way in.  I threw in a few other things I thought you might like to have, too."  

Before Alex could step away, Steve, thrilled to have some of his own things with him now, threw his arms around the young man, and again murmured some unintelligible words.

When he was released from the hug, Alex smiled, reddened slightly and said, "You're welcome, Steve, any time."  Then he looked at his watch, made a face and said, "My shift started five minutes ago.  I'll see you later."  As the rest of the gang said goodbye, Steve just smiled and waved to the young man.

"Well, let's take a look here," Mark said, opening the satchel Alex had left on the bed.  "I see he brought everything I asked for.  Here's you shaving kit, and slippers, jeans, a sweater, two sets of sweats.  Oh, good, he remembered your robe, too.  I forgot to ask him to get that."

As Mark turned to take the robe to the bathroom, Steve grabbed his arm.  Holding up the shaving kit and thumping his own chest, Steve then pointed to the robe and the bathroom.  Then he made showering motions and pointed to the bathroom again.

"You want to wash now?"  Mark asked.

Steve nodded and put down the safety rail on the side of the bed.

"Easy there, buddy," Jesse said as he came to take Steve's arm, "You're not ready yet to go motoring about on your own."

Steve sighed, then with sharp motions, he pointed to his dad and Jesse, then made a carrying motion with his hands.  Pointing from himself to the bathroom, he made his intentions clear.

"Ok, ok, we'll help you get cleaned up, pal," Jesse agreed grinning, "but before you go off, it might be polite to say goodbye to the girls."

Steve rolled his eyes and made a surprised face at his own rudeness, then he turned, smiled, and waved goodbye.  Amanda and Cheryl came around the bed and each gave him a hug.

"I'll see you before I leave to go home, Steve," Amanda assured him, and she added a kiss on the cheek for good measure.  Steve kissed her back and nodded.

As Cheryl hugged him, she asked, "Do you want me to tell the guys at the station anything?"

Steve thought hard about the answer.  There was a lot he'd like her to tell them, but most of it he couldn't communicate.  Finally, he figured out a message.  First, he pointed to himself, then he gave her the thumbs up.

"Ok, I'll tell them you're doing all right.  Do you want them to come visit?"

The thought horrified him, and he adamantly shook his head no and made chopping motions in the air to emphasize his point.  Cheryl gently caught his hands and stilled them, then she cupped his face in her hands and made him look her in the eye.

"It's ok, partner.  I'll tell them you're not ready for visitors, and they'll respect that, but I want to know, when can I ask you again?"  

Cheryl continued to hold his head so that he had to look at her, and he quickly got lost in her concerned gaze.  He wanted to tell her 'never' but he knew he just couldn't do that.  He pulled his head back to indicate that he wanted her to let him go, and she did.  Then he counted off seven on his fingers.

"Ok, Steve, I will ask again next week."  Looking worried for a moment, she then asked, "Do you want me to stay away until then, too?"

_"Oh, God, no, Cheryl.  We're too close for that.  I want you to come back.  I need you to come back, but I don't know if I can face the others."_

"Steve, I'm sorry, I don't know what you said."

He took both her hands in his, held them over his heart a moment, then reached around her waist and gave her a hug.  Leaning back from the embrace, he pointed at her, then his heart, then to her again, and finally at the floor.

"You want me here?"

Steve nodded with absolute certainty.

Cheryl broke into a brilliant smile then, and said, "Well, then, Lieutenant, I will see you tomorrow."  Before Cheryl was out the door, Steve was on his feet, heading for the bathroom with his shaving kit in hand, Mark and Jesse jumping to his side to be sure he didn't stumble.

"Ok," Mark muttered as he and Jesse got Steve situated in the shower, "let's see if Alex remembered a shower cap."

Steve snorted and made a face, which caused Jesse to say sternly, "Steve, you've just recently had brain surgery.  Until the sutures are removed and the incision is healed you have got to be very careful."

Steve's breathing grew ragged and his expression became distraught.  He placed his hands gently over the gauze that was covering his head, closed his eyes, drew in on himself, and made a small hiccupping sound like a choked off sob.  Then he wrapped his arms around himself, faced the wall, and started rocking.  He heard movement beside him, but he couldn't bear to look.

"Steve, look at me," his father's voice said.

Steve turned even further away.

"Steven Michael Sloan, look at me."

Steve wanted to rail at the unfairness of it all.  He just wanted to be alone and miserable again, and his father was using the tone-that-could-not-be-ignored.  Biting his lip hard to keep from crying, he turned to face his dad.

"Son, your hair will grow back," Mark said, gently placing a hand on the side of his head.  Taking his right hand, he continued, "You will get the strength back in your arm and leg."  Briefly touching Steve's lips with his fingertips he added, "And you will talk again.  You have to believe that, Steve, ok?"

Steve breathed deeply and nodded.

"Ok, now, Jesse and I will help you get situated for your shower," Mark said, "then we'll leave the room to give you some privacy, but we won't shut the door.  I want to be able to hear what's going on in here in case you fall," then with a grin, he added, "or decide to try swimming laps like you did when you were four."

_"Da-ad!"_ Steve whined, mortified, as Jesse burst into laughter.

"Wha-at?" Mark whined back teasingly, and said, "I know that tone, Steve, and you must have said Da-ad."

Steve laughed then, too, at his own expense and shook his head.  Then he pointed at Mark, fisted both hands one atop the other, and made a pushing motion toward the floor.  Then he waved one loosely fisted hand over the floor, pointed at his father and laughed some more.  Then he pointed, to his dad, made a chatterbox motion with his hand, and pointed to Jesse.

"Oh, you want me to tell him the rest, now, do you?"

Steve nodded, then pointed from Mark to himself, made the talking motions again, and pointed to Jesse, clearly meaning to say, 'If you don't I will.'

"What's the rest of it, Mark?" Jesse asked, and Steve folded his arms, grinned, and looked at his father expectantly.

"Well, for some stupid reason, we had carpet in the bathroom back then," Mark began reluctantly.  "It was my turn to give Steve a bath, and well he was four years old.  I knew he wouldn't just slip under the water and drown, so I left him long enough to go get his pajamas.  I'd forgotten them when we started the bath.  I was gone less than two minutes, and when I came back, there was more water on the floor than in the tub."

Mark had stopped as if his story was finished, but Steve cleared his throat and made a rolling motion with his hands, indicating he should continue.

"Is there more?" Jesse asked.

Mark shook his head no, but Steve nodded, and gave his father a gentle shove on the shoulder to make him continue.

Grinning, and slightly embarrassed, Mark went on.  "I told Catherine what had happened, and she just handed me the mop and the blow dryer and said, 'That's why I never leave him alone.'  I was up until four in the morning drying out that carpet until it quit squishing."

All three men had a good laugh at Mark's half of the bathtub story, then Mark and Jesse left Steve to finish washing up. It took Steve about forty five minutes to finish bathing and dressing, but when he called his dad to help him out of the bathroom, he looked clean, refreshed, and supremely proud to have done it all himself.  His lunch had just arrived, and as he settled back on the bed he pulled his tray table over to him so he could enjoy his meal.

"Steve," Jesse looked a little worried, "how did you get your pants on by yourself?"

Grinning slyly, Steve held up a finger, pointed to his leg, and then to his wrist.

Mark burst out laughing, but Jesse just frowned and said, "I don't get it."

"He answered your question the way any sensible person would, Jess," figure it out.

"Ok," Jesse turned to Steve, still frowning in confusion.  "Tell me again."

Still grinning, Steve held up a finger.

"One?"

Steve nodded and slapped his leg.

"Leg?"  Jesse was grinning now, too, and as Steve tapped his wrist, he finished, "At a time.  Very funny."  

Suddenly, Jesse went serious again and said, "Look, Steve, I know how important it is to you to be independent, but you have to understand, with the paralysis on your right side, you have to be careful what you do until you've had some physical therapy.  Once you have your balance back, you'll be fine, but until then, you need someone with you whenever you are walking or standing, ok?"

Steve nodded, and held up a hand to silence Jesse.  Then he mimed slipping his feet into the legs of his pants, working them up his legs, and, when the imaginary pants were to his hips, he rocked forward and yanked them up.

"That's how you did it, huh?"

Steve nodded.

"That's not one leg at a time," Jesse grinned and ducked as a pillow came flying at him.

Jesse's lunch break ended shortly after Steve's meal arrived, and he had to dash off after promising to come by before he left for the day.  That left Mark and Steve alone for lunch.  Manipulating his eating utensils had proven to be a bit of a challenge for Steve when he'd first come out of his coma.  The mild paralysis that affected his right hand made it difficult to properly hold a fork while he tried to cut something with his knife, but, even from the first day, when he was barely aware of what had happened to him and why he was there, Steve had insisted on doing for himself.  Now, just a few days later, Mark watched with admiration and unabashed pride as his tenacious son gripped his fork tight in his right fist as he had done as a child and sawed away at the shoe leather steak the hospital cafeteria had sent up on his plate.

There was no telling how long Mark had sat there, adrift in his musings, when he finally realized Steve was watching him.  When his son raised an inquisitive eyebrow, Mark shook his head and said, "It's just amazing how fast you are recovering the use of your hand.  You're so determined.  I'm proud of you, Son."

Steve smiled and nodded his appreciation of the compliment.  He pointed toward his food, then touched his finger to several spots on his shirt.

Mark laughed.  "Yes, a few days ago you would have been wearing it, but you're past that already, and soon to be independently mobile again."

Steve grinned and nodded, and comfortably let the silence stretch.  After several moments, Mark spoke again.  "Uh, Son?"

Steve looked up, and Mark took a deep breath, knowing this would be difficult.

"Steve, it's time for you to do something about your speech."

Steve slapped his knife and fork down on the table with a force that made Mark jump.  Then he looked his father dead in the eye and shook his head no.  There was no way Mark could misinterpret the gesture, so he chose to ignore it.

"I told Marcus to come back at one.  I want you to hear him out.  He has some pretty convincing reasons why you should continue to work with him, but I have to tell you now, Steve, if you refuse to let him treat you, I will ask for another speech therapist to be assigned to your case."

Steve banged his fists on the table, making the dishes jump, and he shook his head no again.  Then he pointed to himself and to his watch and made talking motions with his hand.

"No, Son," Mark said after taking a moment to process the message.  "This is not the type of thing that time alone will put right.  In fact, in the three days that have elapsed since you finally came round, you have been talking less and less.  The longer you wait, the worse it will get.  You need help."

Steve pointed at his dad and then back to himself.

"Steve, if you are ever going to learn to talk again, you will need highly specialized assistance.  I don't have the training to help you.  I will gladly do whatever a qualified speech therapist tells me to do, but I don't know enough about your condition to choose the appropriate activities to help you learn to talk again."

"He's right, you know," came the annoyingly cheerful voice from the doorway, "but I'm back, and I'm just the one for the job."

Steve took one look at the pest in the doorway, and feeling betrayed yet again, drew his knees to his chest, wrapped his arms around them, turned his head away, and rested his cheek against his leg.  Marcus looked to Mark and shrugged.  Mark held up his hand, fingers splayed out, and mouthed the words, 'Five minutes.'

Marcus checked his watch, nodded, and moved around the bed to be in Steve's line of sight.  Steve turned his head and looked the other way again.

"You know, Steve, you're being rather childish, and if it weren't so serious, I might even be amused," Marcus told him.  "But the fact is, it's not funny.  It's dangerous for you.  Give me five minutes, really listen to me, and if you still want to tell me to go to hell, I'll leave, and my backside heading out the door will be the last thing you ever see of me.  Continue to ignore me, and I will get in your face.  I will be here every day, badgering and pestering you, until you just hear me out."

Steve turned to face the young man, and as his father had done moments ago, he held up his hand to indicate that Marcus had five minutes in which to make his point.

"Ok, it's this simple.  In eight to twelve weeks, you will hit a plateau in your recovery.  After that, every improvement will be harder to come by.  At the end of a year, you will hit another plateau, and from then on, any gains will probably be so small they will be imperceptible.

"You have got to be willing to try and fail and try and get frustrated and fail and try and embarrass yourself and fail and try and try and try again and again and again if you are ever going to get your speech back.  I can tell you are a very proud man who doesn't like people to see any weakness in him, and that's going to inhibit your recovery, because until you are back to normal you will have to accept help and correction.

"When I came in this morning, I intended to annoy you.  I intended to make you lose your temper at me.  I did not intend to push you quite so far as I did, though.  Nevertheless, I am glad it happened."

Steve snorted in disgust, waved a hand dismissively at Marcus, and turned away.

Marcus walked around the bed again and looked Steve in the eye.

"Think about it, after what happened this morning, you can't possibly embarrass yourself in front of me anymore.  I've seen you at your worst, I'm back for more, and I am not afraid to piss you off again.  I will push you to do what you need to do to get your speech back.

"So, this is your choice.  Work with me, or make your father find another speech therapist and lose a week or two from that precious eight-to-twelve week window while your new therapist establishes a relationship where you feel comfortable enough with him or her to risk the mistakes you have to make in order to recover."

Marcus looked at his watch.  "I have a minute and eighteen seconds left.  I don't have enough to say to fill that time, but I want you to know, I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings, and I sincerely hope there will be a day when you can properly curse me out for it."

Marcus looked at his watch and continued to stare at it in silence.  Finally, he said, "My time is up, Steve.  Do I stay or go?"

Steve bit his lip in concentration.  He was obviously thinking hard about what he really wanted to do.

"Steve, I need to know now because I have other patients who need help if you are unwilling to accept it."

Steve looked to his dad and raised an eyebrow.

"This is your decision, Son.  You will have to work with somebody.  Do you want it to be Marcus, or someone else?"

Steve sighed, and reluctantly extended a hand to Marcus.

The young man grinned and said, "Right then!  Let's get started."


	9. Introductory Lessons

**Chapter nine:  Introductory Lessons **

**(November 19th)**

Steve's first session with Marcus was devoted to diagnostic testing.  For four hours, Steve answered questions and followed instructions.  The tasks the young man asked Steve to perform were not difficult.  In fact, many of them were insultingly easy and Steve had no trouble whatsoever in doing what he was asked.

First, he pretended to perform some of the basic tasks of his morning routine.  Some of the instructions Marcus gave him were oral, and some were written, but he performed them all on command.  He mimed washing, shaving, brushing his teeth, and dressing.  He even remembered to put on imaginary deodorant and comb the hair that had not grown in yet.  Then he went on to more complicated tasks that included retelling a brief story and performing some complicated mental mathematical operations.

Next, he answered a series of yes or no questions about his own personal information.  He agreed that his name was Steven Michael Sloan and that he preferred to be called Steve.  His mother's name was Catherine and his father was Doctor Mark Sloan.  He denied that he was the Chief of Police and agreed that he was a lieutenant in the homicide division.  The questions went on for nearly twenty minutes, becoming increasingly complex, and a couple of times, he had to find a way to reply yes to one part of the question and no to another.

After the question and answer drill, Marcus assigned him a series of tasks that began simply and got progressively more difficult.  First, he separated a sack of small plastic chips by shape and size.  Then Marcus mixed them up and he divided them again by color.  Marcus mixed them again, and he sorted them by color and size, and once more, he arranged them by color, size, and shape.

Next, Marcus showed him a card with a picture of a panting puppy made from the plastic chips, and he had to reproduce it.  Then he made a train, an airplane, a house, and a tree.

"Now, make a cat," Marcus said, but didn't show him a picture to work from.

Steve made a face at him, but, with a very bored attitude, he complied.  First, he put down a large black circle for the head.  At the top of the circle, he placed two black triangles for the ears, then he placed smaller red triangles on top of them for the insides of the ears.  Dime-sized green circles became the eyes, a small gray triangle for the nose, and a little red semicircle for the mouth.

"Good," Marcus said, "but it's missing something."

_"Of course,"_ Steve said sarcastically, _"my kitty needs whiskers."_

Hearing the tone behind Steve's mangled words, Marcus decided this would be the last task he would give Steve with the manipulatives today.

Steve selected six long, narrow rectangles and placed them on the cat's face for whiskers.  

"Ok," Marcus said, then made a face.  "But I don't like the looks of them.  Can you choose something else?"

Steve put the rectangles back and chose six skinny isosceles triangles instead.  He put the wide ends near the nose and spread the narrow ends out.

"Great," Marcus said.  "Now, there's one more thing missing.  Can you see what it is?"

Steve started at his creation a moment.  There was something wrong, he could see that now, but what was it?  His cat had ears, eyes, nose, mouth . . . eyes!  It didn't have cat's eyes!  He chose two small, narrow ovals and placed them in the centers of the circles he'd used for the eyes.

"Purrrrfect," Marcus said.

Steve just rolled his eyes.

"Get it?" Marcus asked.  "I said purrrrfect."

Steve gave a phony grin and nodded, then rolled his eyes and shook his head no.

"Everybody's a critic," Marcus said.  "I don't get no respect."

Steve finally laughed slightly and shook his head.

"Ok.  Let's put this stuff away."  

With a huge sigh of relief, Steve started gathering up the plastic chips and shoving them into the bag.  When they had finished, Marcus said, "Ok, I am going to ask you some more questions.  I want you to try to verbalize your answers.  Do you understand?"

Steve nodded.

"I want an attempt at words, Steve.  Do you understand?"

_"Yes."_  Steve nodded for good measure, knowing even such a simple response would be unintelligible coming from him.

"What is your name?" Marcus asked.

Steve froze for a moment.  This was not something he could nod or shake his head to.  

Marcus let the silence stretch a full minute before he asked, "Do you know your name?"

A nod.

"Words, Steve."

_"Yes," _accompanied by another nod.

"Then tell me your name."

A shake of the head.

"Words."

_"No," _again, with a shake of the head.

"Try."

Another shake of the head.  _"NO!"  _He was being stubborn and Marcus couldn't blame him.  Most of his patients found it painful to be confronted with the fact that they couldn't say their own names, and the stubborn refusal to try and fail was a common reaction.

"If I say it for you, will you try to say it back?"

A pause for thought, then a cautious nod.  _"Yes."_

"Ok.  Your name is Steve," Marcus pronounced it slowly.  "Say 'Steve'."

Tentatively, he formed the word, once silently to himself, then softly for Marcus to hear.  "Teeb."

Marcus could tell from the expression on Steve's face that the moment he heard his own voice, he knew he had said his name wrong.  He saw the man's jaw clench and noticed the irregular breathing, and his heart went out to him.  Knowing things would only get harder before they got easier, he knew he had to push now.

"Let's try once more.  I'll say it and you repeat."  He drew the word out, making each sound a plain and distinct as possible.  "Sssssteeeeve."

Steve was rocking back and forth.  Marcus imagined the motion soothed him.  After a moment, he said, "You have to try again.  Sssssteeeeve."

_"I am not an idiot or a child.  Don't talk to me like I am stupid!"_

After the string of unintelligible garble, Marcus weighed his options, and decided to try again.

"If you are going to learn to talk again, you have to keep trying until you get it right," Marcus would not cut this man any slack.  He knew how slim the odds of a complete recovery were, and he knew that any improvement would depend upon consistent practice and repetition.  "I am going to say your name again.  I am saying it slowly so you can hear every part of it plainly.  Then you _will_ say it back to me, understand?"

After a moment of mutinous silence, he received a slight, reluctant nod.  _"Yes,"_ the whisper was inarticulate, but he was still trying to talk.

"Sssssteeeeve."

Steve was silent a moment as he processed the sounds, then, "Sssssteeeeb."

Steve threw up his hands and rolled his eyes, clearly aware that he had failed again and already frustrated with his limitations.

"Hold on, now!" Marcus told him.  "That was better.  You got the _s _in this time.  That's an improvement."

Steve said, "Pfft!" and waved his hand dismissively.

"Any improvement is a good sign, Steve.  Now I want you to try it again."

Steve shook his head.  _"No."_

"Yes," Marcus insisted.  "Say it.  Sssssteeeeve."

Steve closed his eyes and concentrated, clearly replaying the sounds in his mind and struggling to find a way to make his own voice reproduce them.  He rubbed his temples and began rocking again.  Finally, he spoke.  "Sssssteeeef.  Sssssteeeef."

He shook his head, angry with himself and clearly upset.  _"Dammit!  Why can't I get it?"  _

"Hey, man, it's ok," Marcus said, giving Steve a comforting squeeze on the shoulder when he saw him close his eyes and clench his fists.  "An _f _is closer to a _v_ than the _b _was.  You'll get it."

Steve shook his head vehemently.

Marcus poured him a drink of water.  "Here," he said, and noticed the shaking hand as his patient accepted it.

Marcus patiently waited several minutes while Steve collected himself, then, when he drained the water and handed back the cup, Marcus said, "We will try one more time, and then we will move on, ok?"

Reluctant but resigned, Steve nodded.

"Sssssteeeeve," Marcus said.

"Ssss . . ." Steve stopped, then started again.  "Ssssteee . . ."  He stopped again and tried once more, determined to get it this time.  "Sssssteeeeve," he grinned.  "Sssteeve.  Steve!  Steve!  Steve!"

Laughing aloud and clapping his hands, Steve celebrated his accomplishment.

"Very good!"  Marcus praised him.  "Very good."

Suddenly, Steve fell silent and started chewing his lower lip, and Marcus could tell he was distraught.

"What is it, Steve?"

Steve closed his eyes and began to rock again.  Marcus waited patiently for him to collect himself and formulate his reply.  Finally regaining control, Steve opened his eyes and held up four fingers.

"Steve," he said, and counted off one finger.  Then he threw his hands up in a futile gesture and shook his head no.

"Steve," he repeated his name and the gestures.  Once more, he said, "Steve," and made the helpless gestures.

Finally, he said, "Steve," and gave the thumbs up.

Marcus thought a moment, then smiled.  "You had to try four times.  In my experience, that's not a lot."

Steve frowned and sighed.

"Look," Marcus tried to encourage him, "the first couple weeks are going to be like introductory music lessons.  Your voice is your instrument and you are learning what it can do.  Once you learn to make sounds with it, you can begin to put those sounds together and make music, and you will start to learn other sounds and words on your own."

Marcus was totally unprepared for the reaction he got.  Steve looked suddenly stricken.  He drew his knees up to his chest, wrapped his arms around them, hid his face against his legs, and began to rock.  When he heard the distinctive sound of tears being barely held at bay, Marcus put a hand on Steve's arm and was brushed off.  Hoping he was doing the right thing by being persistent, he decided to put an arm around Steve's shoulders.

_"Get off me!" _Steve yelled and shoved him away.  _"Just go away and leave me the hell alone!  Just GO dammit!"_  He pointed to the door.

Marcus knew he was being ordered away, be he chose to defy those orders.  Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed beside his patient, and told him, "I don't know what I said to upset you, Steve, but you know I didn't mean to.  I realize you can't explain to me what's wrong right now, and I am not sure you would if you could.  I am sure, if you want me to know what's wrong, you will try to tell me if and when your are ready, but right now, I think you just need some time to gather your thoughts."

Steve tried to push him off the bed, but Marcus braced himself by pushing his toes against the floor.  He gripped Steve's upper arms firmly and said, "Look at me."

Steve shook his head no.

"Look at me, Steve.  I'm not going anywhere until you do."

After a long, silence, Steve looked up, and the pain Marcus saw in his eyes was shocking.  He knew Steve was in no shape to continue testing right now, but he also knew how important it was to get started on Steve's speech therapy as soon as possible.  He didn't want to push the man to the breaking point again, but he knew they had to continue soon if they were to finish the diagnostic tests today.

"I am going to leave, Steve, but I will be back in five minutes, and we will continue."  With that, Marcus got up and left.  He had barely cleared the doorway when he heard the bedpan slam against the wall and clatter to the floor.

Five minutes later, Marcus returned to find Steve red-eyed and shaken, but ready to continue.  He didn't ask if Steve was all right, thinking it might drag him down again.  Instead, he crossed the room and picked up the bedpan, placed it back on the bedside table, and then went into his backpack and pulled out a deck of cards.

"Ok," he said, "these cards have pictures illustrating four well-known fairy tales.  I want you to sort them and then sequence them so that they correctly tell the stories."

It took Steve less than five minutes to perform the task.

"Excellent," Marcus said.  "Now, tell me the names of the stories."

Steve gave Marcus an inquisitive look and refused to answer.

"Oh, you want to know why?"

Steve nodded.

"Words, Steve."

"Ye-eh."

"Good!  You're getting it!"

Steve grinned.

"Ok, why do you have to name the fairy tales?"

Steve nodded, "Ye-eh."

"Alright, this takes some explaining, so hang with me, ok?"

"Ye-eh."

"Aphasia encompasses a lot of things.  The size of the affected area of the brain and the severity of the damage have a lot to do with the problems an aphasia patient experiences.  Are you with me so far?"

Steve nodded.  "Ye-eh."

"Some patients have trouble comprehending language, others can comprehend but can't respond properly to instructions.  There are people who can respond to yes or no questions but not much else, and there are those who can follow simple step-by-step instructions but cannot undertake a complicated task where they have to organize information and decide what to do about it.  The problems are as unique and complex as the patients themselves.  Understand?"

"Ye-eh-ss."

"Hey, you added the _s_!  Great job!"

Steve beamed, and Marcus continued.

"The questions we started with showed me that you can comprehend and respond appropriately to questions of fact.  The plastic manipulatives proved that you still understand size, shape, and color relationships and that you can sort correctly.  You can recognize similarities and differences among objects.  Making the pictures showed me that you can reorganize information to mimic a model, and making the cat told me that you can synthesize information into something new and original.  Telling you the cat was purrrrfect showed that you still understood humor, even if you didn't like the joke.  Still with me?"

"Ye-ehs."

"Good.  Putting these cards in order shows me that you can reassemble familiar information.  Naming the stories will tell me if you can recall familiar names, and in a few minutes, when I have you retell one of the stories, I will know just how well you can describe familiar events."

_"But I can't talk right,"_ Steve said.  _"How will you know I'm telling the stories properly?"_

"Steve, you know I have to guess at what you just said, right?"

"Ye-ehs."

"I'll bet you want to know how I will know what you said."

"Ye-ehs."

"Same way I just did with the question.  I will repeat what I think you said, and trust you to confirm it for me, ok?"

"'Kayyyyy."

"Now.  Will you name the stories for me?"

Steve pointed to one set of cards and said, "No Aiiiii."  The next story was, "Guddyoxen Da Dee Bahs."

Steve stopped and Marcus watched as he took a deep breath and tried to control his frustration.

"You're doing fine, Steve.  Remember, today, I just need to know what you can do.  Tomorrow we will work hard on improving your speech."

Steve nodded, "'Kayyyyy."  He pointed to the third set of pictures and said, "Leen Booee."

He paused a long time before he named the last one.  Marcus waited patiently and watched as he tried several times to form the words.  Finally, slowly, they came out, "Yil Weh Wy-een H-oot."

"Ok, Steve, that was good.  Now, I think I understood you, and I think you got all four right, but just to make sure, I am going to say the names of the stories for you.  I want you to point them out and say the titles back to me, ok?"

"'Kayyy."

As they went through the stories again, Steve listened carefully to Marcus' pronunciation.  Snow White went from 'No Aiiiii' to 'No Waiiii-T.'  Goldilocks and the Three Bears was now 'Guldyox Inna Fwee Baws'.  Sleeping Beauty was 'Sleen Bootee,' and Little Red Riding Hood came out, 'Yil Wed Wydeen Hoood.'

"Very good, Steve," Marcus praised him.  "Now, pick one of the four stories to tell me."

Steve thought a moment and decided he had mauled Sleeping Beauty the least.  Pointing to the correct set of cards, he began, "Wus ponna tie . . ."

Thirty minutes later, the bedpan and urinal were on the floor under the vacant bed again.  After several false starts and long pauses, Steve, frustrated almost to the point of tears, sent the cards flying off the table with a sweep of his arm and, finally said, "Dee Und!"

Marcus looked for a moment at the cards scattered on the floor, then he looked at Steve.

"I'm going to collect the cards, and leave you for a few minutes.  We both need a break.  Then I will come back, and you will have to try to write for me.  That will be the last of my tests.  Then, I will leave you alone for the day."

_"Fine!  I'm getting sick of you anyway," _Steve grumbled.

Marcus had no idea what Steve had said, but he knew it was an insult.  He also knew better than to take it personally.  Without a word, he collected his cards and walked out.

"So how's he doing?" Mark asked the young man as he approached the nurse's desk.

"Well, right now he's pretty pissy," Marcus said, and when the doctor raised an eyebrow, he hastened to add, "which is understandable.  He's had a rough day.  The good news is he's making progress already."

"Any idea what his prognosis might be?"

Marcus hid a smile.  The worried parent was hiding behind medical jargon.

"It's too soon to tell, Dr. Sloan.  You know that.  Ask me again in a month, and I might be able to tell you more."

Mark just nodded and said, "Tell him I'll see him at dinner, ok?"

"Ok, I'll do that, Sir."

Mark turned and walked away, and Marcus returned to his patient.

In less than ten minutes, the writing test ended with Steve throwing pencil and paper across the room and shouting, _"I can't do it!  I know the damned alphabet, but I just can't say it, let alone write it down.  I can't spell my own name, and I sure as hell can't write a letter!  Are you satisfied?"_

"Ok," Marcus replied gently, "we're done for the day.  Your dinner will be arriving within the hour, and your dad asked me to tell you he'd see you then."  Marcus pressed the button that lowered the bed.  "Until then, I want you to take a nap."

_"I am not a child.  I do not need a nap."_

"You need to rest now, Steve," Marcus replied, as if he had understood every word, though Steve knew he hadn't.  "You have just spent four hours working very hard to redevelop skills you no longer possess."

_"I am not tired,"_ Steve insisted.

"Right now, your brain is trying to repair itself.  When you sleep, your body releases low levels of growth hormone to aid in cellular repair.  If you rest now, chances are, at least some of what we have done today will be 'rewired' into your brain as it repairs itself."

Steve gave him a doubtful look.  _"I don't believe you."_

Marcus shrugged.  "The body repairs itself in sleep.  We know the brain can be 'reprogrammed'.  The rest is just a theory of mine, but it stands to reason, and a little more rest won't hurt you, so humor me, ok?"

Steve sighed, rolled his eyes, and since he was flat on his back now, he rolled over, pulled up the covers, and closed his eyes.  

By the time he had his gear collected and put the bedpan and the urinal back where they belonged, Marcus could hear his patient snoring softly.  He smiled, and turned the light out as he left.


	10. Practice Makes Perfect

**Chapter ten:  Practice Makes Perfect **

**(November 20th-21st)**

"Good morning, Lieutenant!" called that obscenely cheerful voice at eight in the morning, startling Steve from his deep concentration.  Marcus laughed at his shocked expression.

"What?  Did I startle you?"

Steve made a rude gesture, and Marcus laughed again.  Steve, already exasperated with the young man, threw the tablet he had been writing on at him.

Marcus caught the tablet in mid air.  "Well, it's good to know you can still use body language," he said.

Steve stuck out his tongue and pointed expectantly at the tablet.  Marcus had dropped by his dad's office before leaving yesterday to give him a child's writing tablet with solid and dashed guidelines and a model alphabet for Steve to practice his writing.  Steve could tell from Marcus' expression as he flipped through the pages that the young man was pleased with his progress.

"Excellent, Steve.  Just excellent.  At this rate, you'll be working on cursive in a week."

Steve grinned.

"Did you manage to make a list of the people you want me to meet with to explain your condition and get them to help you?"

Steve nodded.

"Words, Steve."

"Ye-ehs" Steve said, nodding again, and opening the top of his tray table, he pulled out a sheet of paper that had obviously been torn from the tablet.  He handed it to Marcus and watched proudly as the young man unfolded it and read.

Across the top, in Dr. Sloan's distinctive hand, it read, 'I want you to know this was all Steve's idea.  After I figured out who he wanted, I spelled out the names for him, he found the letters and wrote them down.'  Below that was a list of names in a childlike scrawl:  Dad, Jesse, Amanba, Cheryl, Aleks.

"Oh, this is good, Steve, very good," Marcus praised him, all the while thinking how sad it was that such a man as this couldn't even spell his friends' names anymore, even with help.  He knew Dr. Sloan had seen the errors, but probably hadn't had the heart to correct them.  Quickly weighing the benefits of correcting the errors now against the risks of undermining Steve's enthusiasm, Marcus decided he'd better let the mistakes slide.

"Ok, since you're in the mood to write, let's work on that this morning."

"'Kay," Steve said, and Marcus was pleased to note that he had stopped dragging the word out.  It was amazing how much progress this determined man had made already, and Marcus hoped it would continue until he was fully recovered.  

Marcus placed his backpack on the foot of the bed and proceeded to root through it.  First, he dug out a collapsible easel and set it up.  Then he took out a folding corkboard, opened it up, locked the panels in place, and attached it to the easel.  Finally, he took out a large sheet of newsprint, unfolded it, and tacked it to the corkboard.

"We are going to make an idea web," he explained, helping Steve to sit up on the edge of the bed so he could work at the easel.  "We start with the main idea in the middle and branch out with related ideas all around it.  Of course, those related ideas have other ideas connected to them, and everything ends up being tied together, and that's why it's a web.  Understand?"

Steve nodded, and then shook his head.

"Words."

"Ye-essino."

Marcus drew a big circle in the middle of the paper.  "You'll get it as we go along.  This idea web is going to be about you, so write your name in the circle."

Steve put the pen to the paper three times before he looked at Marcus and said, "Oooooell."

"I'm sorry, Steve, I don't understand."

Steve grabbed the writing tablet and, pointing to the sample alphabet, said, "Oooell.  Aiii-wye."

"You need me to spell it for you?"

Steve nodded.  "Ye-es. Aiii-wye," he made writing motions at the easel.

"Ok," Marcus agreed, "but then you have to say each of the letters and all the words back to me, all right?"

"'Kay."

Marcus spelled Steve's name slowly and carefully, and Steve dutifully pronounced each letter until he found it on the sample alphabet and wrote it down.  As Steve looked for the letters, Marcus noticed that he always started with _a_.  Making a mental note to watch that behavior, Marcus decided to let it go for a while.  It could be something that would take care of itself in a few days or even just a few hours, or it could be a problem with remembering sequences, in which case he would have to address it later.  

When Steve had finished writing his whole name, Marcus said, "Good.  Now, say your name."

Today, there was no reluctance to try, though there was some hesitation on the first attempt.  "Sssteeeve.  Steve!"

"Very good."  Marcus drew a line from the circle with Steve's name in it and put another, smaller circle at the other end.  The idea web now looked like a lopsided barbell.  "Now tell me something that's important to you."

Steve thought a moment, then smiled.  Then he whistled in imitation of a siren, twirled his finger in the air over his head as if it were a strobe light, then adopted a firing stance and held his hands before him as a gun.  He managed to hold his position for about ten seconds before he started to tip sideways and Marcus had to grab his arm and steady him.

"Hey, your balance is improving," Marcus commented.

Steve nodded.  "Ye-es."

"Now, you were saying, I think, that the police department is important to you, is that correct?"

"Ye-es."

"Ok, I'm going to list some words about your job, and I want you to say each of them back to me.  Then you can pick the one you want in that circle, ok?"

"'Kay."

Marcus said each word slowly.  Instead of being insulted, as he had been the day before, Steve was intent.  He listened carefully and repeated each word back as well as he could.

"Police."

"Pleece."

"Lieutenant."

"Loo-tent."

"Homicide."

"Ahm-sighed."

"Detective."

"Dee-tek-tiv."

Steve grinned, and Marcus had to smile back.  He'd got it on the first try.

"Ooell deetektiv.  Aiii-wye."  Steve turned to the easel with a smile on his face.

They spent the entire morning working on the idea web.  Steve wrote each letter carefully and as neatly as possible as he pronounced it, and when he finished each word, he spelled it again and, with prompting from Marcus, said it until he got it right at least once.  Attached to 'detective' were the words 'police,' 'lieutenant,' 'homicide,' 'partner,' and 'Cheryl'.  In a small circle near the bottom was the word 'gun,' and Marcus suspected that Steve viewed firearms as a necessary tool of the trade, no more, and no less.  Also connected to Steve's work were the names of some of his colleagues, including Tanis, Newman, and Chief.

The word 'friends' came out from 'Steve Sloan,' at another point and connected with 'Cheryl' and 'Tanis'; attached to it were also the names 'Jesse,' 'Marcus,' 'Amanda,' and 'Alex,' (both spelled correctly this time), and, at Steve's insistence, were six empty circles for names his dad would help him fill in later.  

Marcus hadn't been able to guess the names for the remaining friends, but he knew one vacant circle was for a tall thin doctor who had left Community General years ago and skied a lot.  Another was for a woman who sang beautifully and worked with Dr. Sloan.  The third was for a military man Steve had known for a long time, and the fourth circle, smaller than the rest, but apparently added out of a sense of duty, was for a nervous stingy man.  The last two were for an oriental man and a young woman with long hair, and that was all Steve would tell him.

Mark's name was also listed under 'friends,' but then Steve decided to draw another circle and call it family.  He connected Mark, Jesse, Amanda, and Alex to it, then he drew two more circles, and managed to communicate to Marcus that they were his aunt and uncle, but since Marcus didn't know the names he couldn't help fill them in.  Finally, Steve drew two tombstone shapes, and Marcus knew immediately to whom he was referring.

After he spelled out 'Mom,' 'Catherine,' 'Sister,' and 'Carol,' Marcus decided to take a break to give Steve some privacy to collect his thoughts.  When he came back, he found that Steve had raided his backpack to find his other markers and had drawn flowers on the graves.  

He gave Steve another minute to examine his work, then said, "Are you ok to go on?"

Steve took a deep breath and nodded.  This time, Marcus didn't insist that he use words.

By eleven o'clock, the page of newsprint was filled with forty words about Steve Sloan, with room for nine more when Mark was available to help.  After Catherine and Carol, Steve had added circles for his hobbies and for BBQ Bob's.  Jesse, Mark, and Alex were connected to Bob's, and Bob's was connected to hobbies, along with surfing and motor cross.  Jesse was also connected to surfing.  Then Steve went back and added one more friend, a tall, serious fellow who seemed rather brusque and almost never laughed.

Marcus studied the idea web and realized just how full and active this patient's life was.  He worked a high-stress fulltime job and helped run a restaurant on the side.  He had a busy social life, and two physically demanding hobbies.  Then and there, Marcus said a little prayer that he could help Steve Sloan get back to his old self quickly.

When Steve stretched and yawned, Marcus looked at his watch and said, "Whoa!  I have a meeting right now that I am late for."  Helping Steve into bed, he said, "I want you to rest until lunch comes.  I will see your father and tell him to help you fill in the rest of the web when he stops by, ok?"

"'Kay," Steve agreed, and surprisingly, he settled back to sleep without argument.

"By the way, you did a great job this morning, Steve."

Smiling sleepily, Steve said, "Tanks, Mawkus."  Then he rolled over and pulled up the covers.

Before he left, Marcus set the idea web up at the foot of the bed so Steve could see it when he woke.  When he looked at it again, he had to smile.  Steve had done an incredible amount of work today.  Marcus had been hoping for ten words describing the detective and he'd gotten five times that.  He also noted that Steve had eventually stopped working from _a _and went right to the letter he needed when Marcus spelled for him.  Hopefully, soon, he wouldn't need the alphabet in front of him all the time.  Once he could spell independently, writing on his own would be within his grasp.

Marcus cut the light as he left the room, and hurried up to Dr. Sloan's office.  

"Sorry I'm late," Marcus said as he entered the office.  "I was working with Steve, and he really did well today.  We sort of lost track of time."  He went on to explain to the others what they had done and finished with, "When you join him for lunch, Dr. Sloan, he'll want you to help him fill in the blank spots.  Try to get him to spell without looking at the alphabet, ok?"

"All right, I'll do that, Marcus.  Now, I believe you know everyone but Cheryl, is that right?"

"Yes, Sir."  Marcus nodded and reached out to shake Cheryl's hand.  "Steve thinks rather highly of you," he said.

"Really?"

"Yes.  He has great respect and affection for you.  Of course, I am sure you realize that, since he asked you to be here."

"Oh, yes, I suppose so.  I hadn't thought of that."

"Now," Marcus began, taking charge of the meeting despite the presence of four doctors, three of them older and more experienced than him.  This was his specialty, and despite his youth, few people in LA, let alone this hospital, knew more about rehabilitating aphasia patients.  "I am sure you all want to know everything I can tell you about Steve's condition, so just let me tell you what is going on with him and what you can do to help.  Then, if you have any questions, I'll see if I can answer them.

"First of all, besides his friends, Steve has one thing going for him that most people don't.  As a leftie, there is a good chance he has speech centers on both sides of his brain.  Most right-handed people don't.  That means some of the functions he has lost due to the brain damage can be taken over by other areas of the brain.

"Another very good thing is the fact that Steve has remarkably few symptoms of aphasia.  His reading and listening comprehension seem unaffected.  His retention is excellent and he seems able to carry out complex instructions without trouble.  He has retained a sense of humor.  He can sort, prioritize, organize, and synthesize information, and he can express himself well through body language.

Cheryl made a confused face.  "Then, what's wrong with him?"

"He cannot form words, and he cannot write them down."

"Expressive aphasia, maybe apraxia of speech, too," Mark said.

"I don't think so, Dr. Sloan," Marcus disagreed.  "Steve is very fluent; he's just incomprehensible.  When he's not being obstinate, he has no trouble producing language sounds, which would not be the case if it were expressive aphasia.  Broca's area of the brain controls the motor movement needed to produce speech sounds, and from the MRI that was done when he was still comatose, I can see that there was only a little damage done there."

"But you said his comprehension, was excellent, right?" Alex asked.

Marcus nodded.

"Then it can't be receptive aphasia, can it?  When Wernicke's area is damaged language comprehension is lost."  

"That's right, Alex," Marcus said.  "And I doubt he has apraxia.  I had him tell me the story of Sleeping Beauty yesterday, and while most of the words were nonsense, the intonation and cadence of the language were spot on."

"Well, then, what the hell is it?" Jesse asked.

"Jesse," Amanda said soothingly, but before she could say another word, he was off on a tirade.

"No, Amanda," he said, then turned to Marcus angrily.  "You have been working with him for two days, and from what I have seen and heard, all you have managed to do is make him hysterically upset and get him pissed off at you.  You should know what is wrong with him by now.  I am tired of hearing about what isn't wrong.  I want you to tell me what is wrong.  I want you to give it a name, dammit, so we can figure out how to fix it."

His anger suddenly spent, Jesse backed off.  Amanda, who was closest to him, put a hand on his shoulder to calm him.

Before Marcus could speak, Cheryl added her comments.  "I don't care what you call it.  I'm a cop, and I don't need to know the medical terminology.  Just tell me how I can help Steve."

"Ok, Jesse," Marcus figured if the young doctor was going to swear at him they might as well be on a first name basis, "Both areas of the brain seem to have been affected slightly.  A minor injury affecting Broca's area would account for the minimal right side paralysis and the occasional stuttering, as well as the telegraphic speech he uses sometimes."

"Ok, stop," Cheryl cut in.  "I know I said I didn't need to understand the medical lingo, but what is telegraphic speech?"

"Telegraphic speech is a term that goes back to when people used the telegraph to send long distance messages," Marcus explained with a smile.  He knew most people really did want to know what all the medical terms meant when they were being used.  Sometimes, even after an explanation, they wouldn't understand, but it still made them feel better to ask.  "Since they were charged by the word they often left out little words like _a_, _an_, and _the_ as well as helping verbs like _will, can, _and_ have._  When a person uses telegraphic speech, he omits those same words.  Usually, sentences are very short and to the point."

"Ok, like a baby learning to talk."

"Very much so," Marcus agreed, "which is why it's important to guard against the temptation to talk down to aphasic patients when they talk this way."

"I understand, now.  What else is wrong with Steve?"

"Well, some damage to Wernicke's area would explain the fluent but incomprehensible speech he uses most of the time.  So, Jesse, in answer to your question, 'What the hell is it?' I think Steve has a complex aphasia syndrome."

"Ok, thank you" Jesse said, and then a bit more politely added, "I'm sorry for losing my temper.  Steve is a very good friend, and what hurts him hurts us all."

"I would have known that even if I hadn't met you, Jesse.  Even if I'd never met any of you, I could tell from working with Steve how much he cares for all of you."

Cheryl smiled, and asked, "So, could you tell us how to take care of him?"

Marcus smiled.  "Don't take care of him, for one thing.  He has a speech disability and some slight paralysis, he is not an invalid."

"Besides," Amanda added with a chuckle, "he'd get pretty irritated if you tried to take care of him."

Marcus nodded and frowned knowingly.  "I got that impression."  Then he started to list the things they could do to help.

"Talk to him, a lot, and treat him like an adult, not a child.  His comprehension is not impaired, so he will understand what you are saying, and he will understand if you talk down to him."

"And he will probably throw the bedpan at you," Mark interjected.

"Quite likely," Marcus agreed, "though this morning he did very well and only threw his writing tablet at me once."

Mark grinned.  "He's been using it?"

"Oh, yeah.  Be sure to ask to see it when you go by at lunch."

"I will.  What else can we do to help him?"

"When you talk with Steve, minimize background noise, shut the door, make sure you have his attention, try to keep the conversation one-on-one as much as possible, and give him time to respond."

"Does that mean he should have only one visitor at a time?" Amanda asked, concerned that they had already been doing things wrong by visiting him together.

"Oh, no, not at all," Marcus said, "but when you're talking to him, make sure he knows when he's switching conversation partners.  Whoever's not talking at the moment should be sure to stay quiet."  

"Ok, I think we can do that.  Would it be ok for my boys to visit him?"

Marcus thought about it a moment.  "Can they be still, take turns, and wait for him to answer?"

"Yes, I think they can."

"Then he should be ok with them.  He might even do better with them than with adults if he is willing to treat conversation as a game with them."

"He might just do that," Amanda said.  "He loves CJ and Dion, and has as much fun as they do when he's entertaining them.  I'll bring them by soon."

"Ok.  Now," Marcus said, "There are a few other things you need to do to really help Steve.  Listen carefully, encourage him to speak, but don't insist on it.  Accept and use all means of communication, and try to understand what he's telling you, no matter how he chooses to convey the message.  Read to him, if you have the time and he wants you to."

Mark looked around.  "I think we can all do that," he said.  "Is there anything else?"

"Yes, two things, and they are very important," Marcus said adamantly.  "Don't correct him too often.  If you can understand a word, even if it isn't quite right, accept it, praise it, and make him glad he tried.  

"Also, let me be the bully.  In therapy, I will insist that he vocalize everything, whether he can say the actual words or not, and I will make him say things over and over and over again until he gets them right.  Some days I will frustrate him beyond all reason, and he will probably throw the bedpan at me more than once.  Learning to speak again will be hard work.  I want him to understand and accept that so that when I show up to work with him, he can get geared up and ready to be challenged.

"Therapy is going to be hard," Marcus concluded, "and there's no way around it.  On the other hand, conversing and communicating can be pleasant, relaxing experiences for him, even now, if all of you make it so.  As I said before, let me be the bully.  He'll need the rest of you to just be his friends."

By eleven forty-five, Marcus had answered their remaining questions, agreed with Alex that it might be a good idea for Steve to have a small dry-erase board to draw the concepts he couldn't pantomime, and gone off to have his own lunch.  Steve's friends, and father, while still concerned, were much more at ease now that they felt they knew what to do.  Before they left the office, though, Cheryl had one last question.

"Uh, Dr. Sloan, what did you and Marcus mean about Steve 'throwing the bedpan?'"

"Steve will probably kill me, but . . ."

"R-O-N," Mark spelled patiently.

Steve looked around for the writing tablet so he could find the letters.  When he saw his dad holding it, he reached out for it.

"Try doing it on your own, first," Mark said.

_"Dad, I want to get it right.  Please give me the tablet."_

"Try to get it yourself.  It's only three letters.  You need the practice."

Steve glowered at his father and Mark said patiently, "Practice makes perfect, Son.  Practice your spelling along with your writing, and it might come back to you sooner."

Steve looked around and found a copy of the day's paper.  In the margin at the top, he wrote the word as he spelled it aloud.  "R-O-N. _Is that right?"_

Mark looked at the page Steve had turned toward him.  "Exactly, Son.  That's just right.  I knew you could do it."

"R-O-N.  Waahnnn.  Wahn."  Steve grinned as he copied his friend's name into the circle and said it aloud.  Then he drew a small heart alongside the list of his friends' names and connected it to Ron and Amanda.  He pointed to what he had done, and laughed, "_What do you think _Aaamannanndaa _will _sayyy _about that?"_

Mark grinned and said, "I think if you manage to say her name before she sees it, she will hug you.  If you don't, she will probably kill you."

Steve laughed with his father, pointed to the smallest circle, and tried to imitate Norman Briggs.  

By the time Marcus arrived back at one o'clock, the web was filled in except for two circles.

"I'm sorry, Steve, I don't know them."

Looking from Marcus to his dad, Steve said, "Jess-see knowssss," and pointed from Jesse's name to the two empty circles.  He got out Marcus' other markers then, and drew a blonde woman and an Asian man next to the two circles.  Pointing to the pictures he said, "Aiiii assss Jess-see.  Eeee knowssss.  'Lo, Mawkus."

"Hello, Steve.  Are you ready to get back to work?"

"Yesss."

Marcus grinned.  He'd never had a patient improve so quickly.  He knew Steve's condition wasn't transient aphasia.  If it were, he would likely be back to normal by now.  Still, it was amazing how rapidly he was regaining his speech.  Just two hours ago, Steve was having trouble with the word yes and he'd only uttered a couple of words without prompting.  Now, after a nap and some lunch, he was forming telegraphic sentences and using greetings spontaneously.

Mark touched Steve's elbow, and when Steve turned to look at him, he said, "I will see you at dinnertime, ok?"

"'Kay, Da-ad."

"Dr. Sloan?" Marcus said, "Tomorrow, when they send the lunch menu up with Steve's breakfast, could you leave it for me?  It will be good vocabulary practice for him."

Mark nodded.  "Ok, Marcus.  I'll remember to do that."

Steve's second day of therapy started much like his first.  When Marcus arrived, he was deeply focused on his idea web, which had been tacked to the wall by his bed.  Trying hard to pronounce the words that he had written the previous day, he got most of them right.  The only things giving him real trouble were long words like 'Lieutenant,' and _r-_words, like Ron, Dora, and Greer.

Not wanting to scare him, Marcus came in quietly and said, "Good morning, Lieutenant."  Steve just grunted, and Marcus laughed.  "I take it you are not a morning person."

"Yessino," Steve said.  "Aiiii wun," he said, and pumped his arms as if he were running.

"I know," Marcus said.  "Your dad and friends told me a lot about you.  I like to run, too.  When you get your balance back, we'll go for a run in the park across the street, ok?"

Steve grinned.  "'Kay."

"Good.  Now, today, we're going to start with the lunch menu," Marcus said, picking it up from where Mark had left it for him on the table.  "Then, you are going to tell me about some of the things on your idea web."

"'Kay.  Ow bed?"

"All right," Marcus agreed, and he helped Steve out of his bed and into a chair.  Once they were both settled, he said, "Now, I am going to say everything on the lunch menu.  I want you to say each item back to me, and then tell me what you want."

"Awite."

"Hey, that's a new word."

"Yes."

"Ok, let's start with your fruit choices. . ."

An hour later, they were finally finishing with the menu.

"Ok, I think I've got it now.  You want fruit cocktail and a banana for fruit, milk and coffee to drink, grilled chicken, a biscuit, carrots and broccoli."

"No, no, NO!" Steve shouted and threw the bedpan across the room.

Marcus hid a smile.  He knew exactly what he was doing.  By deliberately screwing up the menu again, he was forcing Steve to articulate more.

"What's wrong, Steve?"

"No, bwok-ee."

"I thought you wanted broccoli."

Steve looked at him angrily and insistently said, "NO!"  He got up and carefully walked across the room to retrieve the bedpan.  When he got to where it had landed, he stopped and stared at it.  He felt confident enough to walk a little ways on his own now, but he wasn't sure he could bend over without losing his balance and falling forward.  Glowering back at Marcus, he said, "Ep," and pointed to the bedpan.

"Don't look at me," Marcus said.  "I was trying to help, and you started swearing at me."

"Saw-ee," Steve apologized and tried to look pathetic.

"Apology accepted," Marcus smiled, "but I'm still not going to fetch the bedpan for you."

Steve glared at Marcus for a moment, then kicked the bedpan.  It bounced off the wall and rattled across the floor.  Satisfied with the sound, Steve kicked it again.  Then he booted it across the floor back to his chair.

Sitting back down, he said petulantly, "No bwok-ee."

"But, Steve," Marcus teased, "broccoli is good for you."

"Don' Ike.  Tinks."

"Tinks?  Think about that word a minute, Steve.  Did you say it right?"

Steve nodded.  "TINKS!" he insisted, made a face and pinched his nose.

"You mean it smells bad, right?"

"Yes."

"Think before you speak.  How do you say something smells bad?"

Steve thought a moment.  "SSSSSSTINKS!" he said, and grinned.

"Good.  Ok, what do you want instead of broccoli?"

"Gwinn buns."

"Excuse me?"

"Gwinn buns!  Like gwinn buns."

"You're saying it wrong again, Steve.  Think about it, then say it correctly."

For almost three minutes, Steve sat thinking, trying to remember how to say the name of his favorite vegetable.  Marcus said it wasn't gwinn buns, but then, what was it?  Without warning, he started to weep.  He took the bedpan from the floor beside his chair and started banging it against the bed.

"No know," he cried.  "No KNOW!  Want gwinn buns!"

Marcus crouched beside him, and said, "Hey, take it easy, Steve, it's ok.  Take the menu, find the word you want, and try again."

Steve wiped his tears on the cuff of his shirt, took the menu from Marcus, and searched for what he wanted.  "Dis," he said.

"Say it, Steve," Marcus insisted gently.

"Can't.  Ooo say."

"Try."

"Ooo say."

"Only after you try, Steve," Marcus insisted.

Steve studied the words a minute more, then said, "Gween beeyans."  Tears slipped down his cheeks because he knew he said it wrong.

"Ok, Steve, that was better.  Now listen.  Green beans.  Can you say that?  Green beans."

"Gween bee-eens," he said, and threw the bedpan across the room sobbing now.  _"Dammit, when am I going to be able to talk?  I am so tired of this.  Why can't you help me?"_

"Ok, that's it.  You did a lot yesterday.  You need to take it easy today.  I want you back in bed for a nap, now."

"No," Steve refused weakly even as he let Marcus help him into bed.  "Wan green beans."

Marcus gave him a meaningful look, then.  "I told you, you could do it."

Steve smiled briefly, then laughed softly.  Then he began to weep again.  "Hawd," he said.  "So hawd."

"I know it's difficult, Steve," Marcus agreed, "but you have got to keep pushing.  The more you improve now, the better off you will be later."

"'Kay."

As Steve turned over on his side, Marcus pulled the blankets up and said.  "You rest now, I'll be back in an hour."

"'Kayyyyy."

Marcus didn't correct Steve for slurring the word.  He knew it was just because he was tired.

It was eleven o'clock when Steve woke up from his nap.  He was alone, but there was a note on the table for him.  He tried to read it three times, but all he could make out was his name and the signature,_ Marcus._

He looked at his idea web, and he could read all of it.  Then he looked back at the note, and still couldn't decipher it.  There were a few letters here and there that he could make out, but most of it made no sense at all to him.  He got out his writing tablet and copied the letters he could make out, drawing lines for the letters he was missing.  He hated word games, and this was quickly becoming very frustrating because in some places he wasn't even sure how many letters were missing.

The harder Steve worked, the more important it became to decipher the note.  What if it were something important?  What if he was supposed to do something or relay a message?  He had to know what it said.  Soon he was highly agitated, rubbing his forehead, and muttering to himself.  Suddenly, he could bear no more, and he shoved the table away, knocking it over, and grabbed the bedpan and hurled it across the room shouting, _"Dammit!  Dammit!  Dammit!  Why can't I read it?  What the hell does it say?"_

"What in the world is wrong?" the redheaded nurse Steve now knew as Elena shouted over his tirade.  "Lieutenant Sloan, are you all right?"

Steve pointed at the bedpan and jabbered something at her.  She knew he was slightly paralyzed and unable to speak as a result of a head injury, so all she could do was fetch him the bedpan.  When she handed it to him, he threw it away again and continued yelling.

"Do you need some help to get to the bathroom, Lieutenant?"

_"_No_, dammit!  Just bring me the damned bedpan again and find _Mawkus_.  I _need_ to know why I can't read his note."_

Since he shook his head no, pointed at the bedpan, and continued yelling, the nurse fetched the bedpan back again, and Steve beat it on the bedrails a few times, shouting all the while, before throwing it again.

"Let's just get you into the bathroom, Lieutenant Sloan," the nurse said soothingly, taking his arm.

_"Find _Mawkus,_ dammit!"_  He shook her off, turned to her, and put one hand on either side of her face so he could force her to look at him.  Making himself calm down, he looked her in the eye and said, "Yayna.  Need Mawkus."

He turned to pick up the note to show her, but his outburst had frightened her.  By the time he turned back around with the note, she was out the door.

Steve was no longer upset, but he was very anxious about the note.  Carrying it with him, he ventured to the door of his room for the first time.  Standing in the doorway, he called again, "Yayna.  Need Mawkus.  Peeze?"

She was nowhere in sight, so he turned and headed toward the nurses desk.  All he wanted was to know what the note said.

"Yayna?"

"Ok, you hold him!" Steve heard Elena shout as he felt two burly arms wrap around him.

"NO! _ Get off me.  Let me go._  Yayna_ I just _need Mawkus.  Peeze!"  

"Shhh.  It's going to be ok," Elena soothed him.  "It's ok.  You're just going to have a nice sleep, and when you wake up, it will all be better."

Steve struggled against the orderly who was restraining him, but twelve days in the hospital, seven of them in a coma, had left him weak and uncoordinated.  As he felt cold alcohol rubbing against his arm, he redoubled his efforts.

"Just relax, Lieutenant.  You'll be fine."

Steve began to weep at the prick of the needle sliding into his skin.

_"Stop!_  Peeze,_ stop!  I'll be good!  I just _need Mawkus!  Peeze, _find _Mawkus."  Steve continued to fight as the orderly carried him bodily back to his room, but the sedative was just too strong.  By the time they were ready to put him back in his bed, he was weak as a baby.  As she covered him up, Elena heard him moan piteously, "Yayna, wy?  _Just _wan Mawkus."


	11. Off Key

**Chapter eleven:  Off Key**

**(November 22nd-28th)**

"Dr. Sloan, I am so sorry," Elena apologized for the third or fourth time.  "I should have known better.  I am so, so sorry."

After being sedated against his will for a second time, Steve had become very withdrawn and uncooperative.  Marcus and his father had explained to him that every day of therapy he lost to sulking was a day he would never get back, and worse still, was a day that took away the progress he had made.

His reaction had been to roll over and pull the blankets over his head.

Now Mark had a distraught nurse blaming herself for Steve's stubbornness and for a combination of events over which she'd had no control.  As she pulled a tissue from the box on Mark's desk and wiped her eyes, he came around and sat in the chair beside her.

"Elena, sweetie, listen to me," he said.  "I am angry about what happened the day before yesterday, but I don't blame you.  You did all you could, and you followed procedure."

"But he's your son!"

"I know, and my son is a big, strong guy," Mark concurred.  "Even in his present condition, he could have hurt you badly had he been so inclined.  Any time an agitated patient puts his hands on you like that, you are within your rights to sedate him."

"But now he's stopped talking, and it's all my fault."

"Elena, you should never have been the only nurse on the floor," Mark reasoned with her.  "Your colleagues were wrong to all go on break at once and leave you to tend to twenty patients, especially since you'd just been off for three days and hadn't had time to look through all their charts.  I will be speaking to the nursing supervisor about that.  Terrible things can happen in ten minutes, and they all know it.

"Marcus shouldn't have written that note in cursive, either.  Steve can only read printing right now, and Marcus knows that.  He just forgot.  It's an unfortunate thing, but it just happened, a natural, honest mistake.

"Steve should not have become so upset about that little note.  He has always had a terrible temper, and it's flaring up more than ever right now because of his disabilities.  He should have learned to control it better years ago, but it has always gotten the best of him.  If he had thought about it for just a couple of minutes, he would have realized that no one would try to relay important information to him in a note.

"You did your best in a very difficult situation, Elena.  If Steve wants to be obstinate and pout, that's his choice.  Yes, it will hinder his recovery, and that has me very worried, but it is still his choice.  No one can make him try if he is unwilling, and that is not your fault.  Understand?"

"Yes, Dr. Sloan, but . . ."

"No 'buts' Elena.  You did your job."

"Yes, Sir."

"Now, go back to work, and if any patient needs you, including my son, just do your job."

"Yes, Sir.  Thank you, Dr. Sloan.  Goodbye."

Mark waved to her slightly as she left, but before she was out the door, his thoughts were back with Steve.  They had to get him talking.  Steve was prone to sulking for long periods of time when he felt his dignity had been offended.  If he did that now, he might never speak again.  They had to make him realize how important it was that he continued to work on his speech despite what had happened, because later, he might not have the opportunity to do so.

"Hey, Mark!"

His young friend's voice pulled him out of his reverie.

"Hello, Jess," he said and got up to go sit in his usual seat behind the desk.

"How's Steve?"

Mark thought a minute.  Then said, "Uncommunicative."

"Oh?  Still?  That's a bad thing, Mark."

"I know.  Yesterday morning, when he was finally coherent enough to explain, he told Marcus and me what had happened.  Since then, he has simply refused to say another word.  What's worse, he won't try miming anything or drawing.  He's completely stopped communicating.  I'm very, very worried, Jess."

"I don't blame you, Mark.  This could be disastrous for Steve."

The two men sat in silence for several minutes.

"Mark?"  Jesse waited until his friend raised an eyebrow and focused his attention.  "I have an idea, but you may not like it."

"If it will help Steve get talking again, I'll love it, Jess."

"Ok, just remember you said that."  Jesse began to outline his plan.

Steve rolled over and looked at his clock, surprised to find it was nearly noon, and no one had bothered him.  He was bored out of his head from two days of having nothing to do.  He might have watched television, but he'd broken the remote the first day he'd met Marcus, and after that, he'd been too busy working on his speech to worry about it.

He closed his eyes and turned over again, so he couldn't see the clock.  He had no need to look at the glowing red numbers; he knew very well just how slowly the day was passing.  He opened his eyes, and for a long time just stared vacantly at nothing.  Slowly, his vision focused, and he found himself looking at his idea web.  The list of his friends was in front of him, and before he knew it, he was trying to say their names.

"Moss."  He frowned.  Just the other day, he had been able to say 'Marcus' almost correctly.  He could hear the name in his head, but just couldn't say it.  He tried another.  "Yes-see."  He'd said Jesse better, too.  He couldn't believe how fast he was losing the limited vocabulary he had built up.  Every word out of his mouth was just a little off key.  He looked hard at Amanda's name for several moments, but he couldn't even figure out how to start it.  It was just too long.  "Wahn."

Steve sighed and closed his eyes against the sting of tears.  Then he rolled over again and stared at the clock.  Three minutes went by, and he finally made up his mind.  He couldn't continue like this.  Pressing the call button, he waited for someone to come.

The redheaded nurse peeked timidly around the corner.  

"Yayna," Steve said.  "Wan Moss."

"Lieutenant, I am very sorry.  I don't understand you.  Your father will be here in just a few minutes.  Can you wait?"

Steve sighed and nodded and rolled over again so he didn't have to look at the clock.

Something woke him, and he was surprised to find he had fallen asleep.  Suddenly afraid that he had missed his father, he rolled over quickly to look at the clock, wondering how long he'd been napping.  It was only 12:05, and just as he was about to ring the nurse again, he saw his father coming through the door with his lunch tray.

"Da-ad!"

"Hello, Son," Mark said cheerfully.  "How are you today?"

He paused a moment for Steve to form an answer, but started talking again before he could get the words out.

"I suppose you're probably bored."

Steve nodded and started to answer, but his father just kept talking.

"It occurred to me this morning that the remote to your TV was broken, so you've been sitting here on your own with nothing to do all day, haven't you?"

"Ye-ehs," Steve replied, just able to get the word in edgewise.

"Well, is there anything I can get you?"

"Ye-e . . . "

Without waiting for a reply, Mark started offering suggestions.

"I know, you have a couple motor cross magazines at the house.  I'll try to bring those in tomorrow, and I'll get you an evening paper before I head home for the night.  If I twist a few arms, I can probably get someone to replace the remote this afternoon."

"DA-AD!"

"What?"

"Shhhh!"  Steve put a finger to his lips as he hushed his father.

"Oh, did you want to say something?  I'm sorry."

Steve took a moment to collect himself, and just as he opened his mouth to speak, his father started talking again.

"I don't mean to rush you, but I have a meeting in fifteen minutes.  What do you want to say?"

The hurt look on Steve's face as he interrupted tore at Mark's heart, but he knew the only way he could get his stubborn offspring fully committed to therapy was to make him realize he would never be able to live the kind of life he would have without it.  Steve tried again, and because the words were rushed, they sounded worse than they might have if he'd taken his time.

"Wun Moss.  Wun tok.  Peeze."

Mark made a confused face, even though he knew exactly whom his son was asking for and why.  "Steve, I'm very sorry, but I don't understand.  Moss, what?  A rolling stone gathers no moss?  Are you trying to tell me I'm too busy?"

"NO!"

"Then what?  Son?"

This time he gave Steve more time to prepare himself to speak, and when the words came out, they were somewhat clearer, and accompanied by gestures.

"Wan' Moss."  Steve made a talking motion with his hands.  "Wan' tahk."  He pointed to himself and made the talking motion again.

"Moss?  Marcus?  You want Marcus?"

Steve nodded.

"Son, I'm sorry.  He's been assigned another patient already."  

It was only half a lie.  Marcus had been assigned another patient, but only for the day.  He was covering for a colleague while Steve cooled off.  The other speech therapist had been asked to testify in court on behalf of a patient whose speech disorder caused him to sometimes use profanity without wanting to or knowing he'd done so.  He had appeared in court a few weeks ago to contest a traffic ticket, and his nerves had got the better of him.  A few choice words had slipped, and now he needed a medical witness to get him off the hook for contempt.

As Mark watched Steve come to terms with the thought that his speech therapist had given up on him so quickly, half of him wanted to laugh at the confusion he saw crossing face.  The other half wanted to cry at the fear, distress, and regret that quickly followed it.  He settled for as neutral an expression as he could manage, and when he saw Steve clench his fist in the sheets, he reached out to comfort him.

"We can always find someone else, Son," he said as he gave Steve's shoulder a loving squeeze.

Steve shook his head.  "No.  Wan M-M-Maw-kuss."

Mark smiled.  His son was trying hard to make himself understood.  This had to be progress.  More importantly, he was requesting help.

"I'll see what I can do, Son, but no promises."

"Nee M-Maw-kus."

"I'll try, Steve.  Now, you need to sit up and eat your lunch.  Then you might just want to have a shower and shave.  Jesse has arranged for you to have some visitors this afternoon.  
  


"Vistas?  Hoo?"

"I'm not supposed to tell you that, but Jesse thinks you will be glad to see them."

Steve looked at his idea web.  Most of his friends who lived in the area had been stopping by to see him frequently.  The only people he knew well who hadn't been in to visit were some of his colleagues from the force.

"Peece?  No!  No peece."  He couldn't bear to have them see him as he was.  

"No, Son, it's no one from work, but you really should get cleaned up for them.  They'll be here around three."  Mark looked at his watch.  "Now I have to get to that meeting.  Have a good afternoon.  I'll see if I can get that TV remote fixed for you."

Before Steve could say anything else, his father was gone.

Steve merely picked at his lunch.  It was killing him not to know who his guests were going to be.  Finally, at one o'clock, he buzzed the nurse.  It was Elena again, and he sighed.

"I really am sorry about the other day," she said.

Steve pointed to himself.  "Aiii nooo.  'S'kayyy."  Then he pointed to the tray, a half-eaten travesty of his lunch still on it.  "Dunn."

"You're finished and you want me to take it away?"

"Ye-esss."

Elena carried the tray off and then came back.  "Anything else?"

"Ye-esss."  He pointed to himself, then to the bathroom.

"You need to use the bathroom?"

"No."  He made washing motions.

"You want to bathe?"

"Ye-ess.  Need ep."

"I'm sorry, I don't understand."

"Aiii wahss." He said, pointing from himself to the bathroom and making the washing motions again.  Then he pointed to Elena, to himself, and to the bathroom again.  "Ooo ep me."

"You need me to help you wash?"

"Wahss, no.  Ooo ep me daihr."  He pointed to the bathroom.

"Oh, you want help to get to the bathroom?"

"Ye-ess."

"Ok, how about we collect a change of clothes for you first?"

"'Kay."

Elena opened Steve's closet and started taking out the clothes one item at a time, waiting for Steve to say yes or no to each article of clothing until he had a complete outfit to change into.  She was delighted to be able to help him, and grateful that he had been willing to give her the opportunity.  Then she turned on the heater, laid out his clothes, and put a towel where he could reach it.  Finally, she steadied Steve as he walked to the bathroom.

Steve was feeling much better as he sat on the bed waiting for his guests to arrive.  He was still nervous about who they might be, but he was fresh and clean-shaven and ready to welcome them.  He was also hopeful that he might be seeing Marcus tomorrow.  He knew his father would never willingly use his position as head of internal medicine to exercise any undue influence, but he also knew Mark Sloan had been with Community General long enough to get what he asked for most of the time.

He turned and looked to the idea web on the wall beside him again, and tried to pronounce some of the names.  Without someone there to say them for him, it was almost impossible to get them right, but at least now, he had the _J _in 'Jesse', and though 'Marcus' came out different ways at different times, it was usually two syllables.  He'd been working on 'Amanda' for several minutes, and it kept coming out either too short or too long, but Steve figured if you put all his attempts together, they worked out just about even and on average, he had said it right every time.

He laughed at the bad joke, and jumped when a familiar voice asked, "What's so funny?"

Steve turned, wide-eyed and grinning and shouted, "Sah-uh!"

She came running to him and threw her arms around him, her heavily plastered left arm thumping him soundly on the back.

"Oh, Steve!  It's good to see you."  She drew back from the hug, and looked at him.  "What have they done to you?" she said, tears in her eyes as she gently ran her hand over the soft stubble of hair that had grown in after his surgery.  The bandages had been removed several days ago when the stitches had been taken out, and now, Steve barely noticed his nearly naked head.

"'S'kayyy, Sah-uh.  No cwy.  Gwo back."

Sara laughed, and sat on the edge of the bed, her hand resting on Steve's arm.  "Jesse said you couldn't talk."

"I tahk.  So-so," Steve said.  Then his eyes got wide.  "You tahk Jes-see?"

"Yes, Steve.  I asked for you when I woke up the day after you brought me in here, and Jesse told me about your accident," Sara explained.  "He asked me how we know each other, and I told him about the class.  He couldn't believe you would take violin lessons, so I told him about your mother's violin.  He promised to keep it a secret from your dad."

Suddenly, Steve became distraught.  He covered his face with his hands and began to rock.  

Sara had her arm around his shoulders instantly.  "Steve?  Steve, what's wrong?"

Steve looked up at her then, his face a picture of despair.  "Gone," he whispered.  "Viyin gone.  Baa men tuck."  Then he hid his face again and started to weep.

Jesse came in to find his best friend in tears yet again, this time with Sara's arms around him.  At his questioning look, she just put her finger to her lips and shook her head, she was content to sit there and let him cry it out.  Very quietly, Jesse took the empty seat beside the bed, and put the box he was carrying on the floor beside him.

After several minutes, Steve gradually stopped crying.  He looked up to Sara and said, "Saw-ee," then, he turned to see Jesse and said, "Hi Jes-see."

"Hey, buddy," Jesse said.  "Can you tell me what's wrong?"

Steve began to grow upset again, so Sara asked, "May I tell him?"

Steve nodded.

"His mother's violin is gone.  Some men took it."

"Who?  When?"

"I don't know," Sara told him.  "That's all I got."

Jesse moved over to crouch before Steve and put a hand on his friend's shoulder to get his attention.  "Steve, can you tell me any more about who took the violin?  When did it happen?"

Steve struggled to keep hold of his emotions.  He hadn't forgotten about the violin in all this time, and he had even tried to tell his dad more than once.  It had been on his mind since he had first come out of the coma, but he'd been wrapped up in working on his speech.  Now seeing Sara and realizing that he had lost that wonderful new part of his life had suddenly cut him to the quick, and he desperately missed being able to make music.

"Aks-dent.  Two men tuck.  Viyin in muh-neeee."

Jesse thought about what he had said a minute.  "You're saying two men were at the scene of the accident?"

"Ye-es."

"And they took the violin and some money."

"No.  Bob muh-nee."

"The money from Bob's?"

"Yes!"

"Oh.  You know, when it turned out you hadn't made the deposit, we pretty much figured it had 'disappeared' from the scene of the accident."  Looking at Sara, Jesse explained, "Sometimes that happens, and of course nobody knows where anything went."  Including Steve in his comments again, he added, "But I know both of the paramedics who brought you in, and I couldn't imagine them doing that."

After another thoughtful moment, Jesse asked, "Steve, tell me if I'm right about this.  You're saying two men came to the scene of the accident, took the deposit for Bob's and your mom's violin, and left.  Is that right?"

"Yes!"

"Ok.  Is there anything else you can tell me about the two men?"

"Yes.  Name.  Bwy in Weg-gie.  Weg-gie bows fan."

Jesse mouthed the words a few times, and guessed, "Their names are Bryan and Reggie?  Reggie bowls for fun?  I'm confused, Steve."

Steve thought for a while, then said, "Name.  Weg-gie.  Bwy.  NO BWYAN!"

"Ok.  Reggie and Bry.  Is that right?"

"Yes.  Weggie bows fan."

"And Reggie bowls for fun."

"No!  No boween.  Bows."

"What kind of bowls, Steve?"

"Nah bows.  BOWS!  Cahgo Bows."

"Cargo bowls?  What do you mean?  Soup bowls?"  Caught up in the guessing game, Jesse failed to notice that his friend was getting agitated.  "Cereal bowls?  Salad bowls?  The Super Bowl?  Fish . . ."

"TOP!"

Now, Jesse realized Steve was upset, and he was quick to apologize.

"Steve, buddy, I'm sorry.  I was just getting a little excited.  Is there another way you can show me what you mean?"

Steve thought about it a minute and then nodded.  He made a waving motion toward the floor, then looked expectantly at Jesse.

Jesse looked back at him blankly.  "Sorry, pal, I'm not getting it."

Steve thought some more.  Except for his beloved Lakers, he didn't follow basketball enough to know all the team rosters.  The only player from the current Bulls team he knew anything about was that guy from Croatia, and he knew there was no way he could pronounce that name.  So, he settled for a couple of the big names from the 1990's.  "Cahgo bows.  Jowdun.  Pippen."  Then he made a waving motion toward the floor, and pretended to throw something up in the air.  "Baskbaw."

"Oh, man!  Of course!  The BULLS!"  All of a sudden, Jesse left off his excited shouting, looked at Steve quizzically, and asked, "How did you know he was a Bull's fan?"

Steve smiled, plucked at the sleeve of Sara's jacket, and said, "Coat."

"Ohh.  Steve, do you want me to call Cheryl and give her this information?  See what she can turn up?"

"Yes."

For the next several minutes, Steve gave Jesse as much of a description as he could of the men who had stolen the money and the violin.  Jesse also promised to bring his laptop next time he came by, and they would look through the Chicago Bulls merchandising sites for the specific jacket Steve had seen.

"Ok, buddy," Jesse said as he prepared to leave, "I'll call Cheryl right away and tell her everything you've told me."  He paused, then, "Do you want me to tell your dad for you, too?"

"NO!  Aiii tell.  Yatuh.  Tok bettuh."

"You'll tell him when you can talk better?"

"Yes," Steve said sadly.

"Ok, buddy.  If you change your mind, just let me know, ok?"

"'Kay, but won't."

Jesse smiled.  No matter what happened, he could always trust Steve to be stubborn.  Though it sometimes drove him crazy, and often worried him, he had to admit, it was one of the things he loved about his friend.

"Ok, Steve.  Just remember the offer stands.  I'm going to go call Cheryl, now."  He was halfway to the door when he said, "Oh, hey, I have something for you!"  He went back to the chair he'd been sitting in earlier and picked up the box he had brought in.  "Marcus recommended this," He said, "but you have to say every letter and pronounce every word."

"Maw-kus?"

"Yes, Steve.  He'll be back tomorrow," Jesse told his friend.

Beaming happily, Steve turned the box around so he could read it and said slowly, "Gwa-buh."

Grinning, Jesse said, "Now he says bull."

Steve made a face and waved him away.  "Bye, Jess."  Turning to Sara, eager to begin working on his words again, he asked, "Ooopay?"

It took Sara just a second to work out what he was saying, then she smiled.  "Ok."

Ten minutes before five that day, Mark stopped by Steve's room to find his son arguing heatedly about a game of Scrabble with the young woman he'd seen with Steve at the community college and a short, elderly Asian man.  He watched in fascination from the doorway as Steve used gestures and words to make a point.

"But Sara is a proper name, Steve," the young woman insisted.  "I ought to know."

Mark smiled, remembering that Jesse had told him the girl's name was Sara.

Pointing at the board, Steve said adamantly, "Coh-wox, too."

"Clorox is not a proper name," Sara tried to explain.  "It's just another word for bleach."

The Asian man cleared his throat and said, "Actually, Sara, Clorox is the name of a particular brand of bleach.  You should not have been allowed to use it."

Looking to the man, Sara said, "Well, he should have challenged me when I used it then."

Steve groaned and threw up his hands clearly indicating that he thought _that _was a truly ridiculous notion.

"Or you could let it go for him this time," the man said.

"But I caught him!" Sara said, "I have the right to make him take it back.  It's in the rules!"

"One good turn deserves another, Sara," the old man said, "and the main purpose of this game is not to have a winner and two losers.  It is to help Steve learn to speak and spell better."

"Yes!"  Steve agreed.

Sara gave it some thought, then she said, "Ok, let's do this.  If you say it right, you can keep it.  If you say it wrong, you take it back, lose your turn, _and_ subtract the points from your score."

Mark grinned, knowing his son would prefer to rise to the challenge and lose rather than give in and take the word off the board.  He thought it was fundamentally unfair that the girl would use Steve's stubborn streak against him like that, especially considering how hard it was for him to say _r_ sound.  Still, Steve had a choice.  It was up to him what he chose to do.

Steve held up three fingers and said, "Twee twys."

"One."

"Sara," the old man said in a warning tone, "you've established three penalties if he fails.  I think it's only fair that you give him three chances to succeed."

"Hmph!" Steve added with a firm nod of his head.

"Ok.  Three chances."

Mark watched as Steve tried to form the word, and silently cheered him on.  His eyes were closed and he was moving his lips trying to hear the word in his head and make his mouth form the sounds.  Then he shook his head in exasperation and pointed at the girl.

"Oosay!" he told her.  "Wuntime."

"You want me to say it once for you?"

"Yes!"  Then as she opened her mouth to speak, he added, "Sowwwweee."

Sara frowned, then smiled, "Sorry?  Why are you sorry?"

Steve shook his head, thought a moment, and with a small smile, tried again.  "Ssssssowwweee" The word took a long time to say, and sounded like something from a dream sequence in a bad movie.

Sara frowned again, then smiled.  "Slowly?"

"Yes!"

"Ok.  Once, slowly.  Ready?"

Steve nodded.

"Sa-ra," she said.

Eyes closed, lips moving, Steve tried to say the name.  Finally, he added his voice.  "Sah-ah."

From the look on his face, it was plain that he knew he'd said it wrong.  Without opening his eyes, he tried again to work out what he was doing wrong.

"Sah-wa."

Steve frowned, knowing he was wrong again, and continued to try.  

"It's the _r,_ Steve," Sara said quietly, now more eager to help him than to defeat him.  "Listen carefully and look at me, and I will say it for you once more."

Steve nodded, opened his eyes and watched Sara's mouth closely as she said, "Sa-rrrrrra."

Steve closed his eyes again, mouthed the sounds a few times, and finally, slowly, but clearly said, "Saaaarrrrrrra."  His eyes popped open, and he grinned, knowing he'd finally gotten it.

"Sara!  SaraSaraSara!  SARA!"

Mark felt himself choke up as he watched his son's friends laugh and congratulated him on his accomplishment.  True tears of pride and joy came a moment later when Steve held up a finger and went around the bed to point to words on the idea web that was hanging on his wall.

"F-fffrrrriends!"  Steve said, then pointed to the names with _r_'s in them.  "Rrrrrronn . . . M-Marrrcus . . .  Shhharrre-uhh."

He started pointing at _r _words all over the chart then.  "Invesss-tigatorrrrr . . .  P-p-par-nnnerrrr.  F-fahderrr.  M-marrrrk . . .  M-muhderrr.  C-C-Cahderine . . .  Sissssssster.  Caro . . .  D-d-dora."  Then beaming proudly, he went under BBQ Bob's and, pointing to the correct word, said, slowly and plainly, and after much thought, "Rrrrressstaurannnt."

Not wanting Steve to misinterpret his tears, Mark dried his eyes, then and entered the room.

"Sounds like the three of you are having a good time.  Who's winning?"

"Steve is now," Sara said petulantly.  

Mark smiled, realizing that was the reason she had fought so hard against letting him use her name, but he said nothing because he didn't want them to know he'd been watching.  The room was silent for a few moments before Mark asked, "Son, aren't you going to introduce me to your friends?"

"Oh, yes!  Da-ad.  S-sara," he said indicating the girl.  "Sara.  Da-ad.  Doctorr Marrrk S-Sloannn.  In dis  . . ." Steve trailed off as he turned to the Asian man.

The man giggled, a mischievous sound not wholly in keeping with his appearance, and said, "You know, Steve, you haven't said my name yet.  Surely you haven't forgotten me."

"No forgot.  Can't say.  Start wit _m_.  Mmmickle."

"No, Steve, Michael is my son."

"Mike-all ep Sara?"

"Yes, do you remember my name?"

Steve nodded.  "Oosay.  Aiiisay back."

The man grinned then, and said slowly, "My name is MinJe."

Steve smiled too, then and said, "Da-ad.  MIN jay.  MIN jay.  Da-ad."

Mark shook MinJe and Sara's hands then and said, "Both of you can call me Mark, and thank you so much for stopping by to see Steve."

Steve, who was sitting beside Sara on the bed suddenly scooted away from her and said, "Da-ad, Sara yust friend!  YUST friend!"

Mark laughed then and said, "I know, Steve.  Jesse explained what he could to me, but I have to tell you, he's about to explode with the secret he's trying to keep.

Steve hung his head, wrapped his arms around himself, and started to rock.

Mark was highly attuned to his son's moods, and moved over to Steve immediately.  "Son, what's wrong?"

Steve just shook his head and tried hard to keep from crying.

Sara could see the old doctor was terribly worried about his son, and she decided someone needed to tell him something to put his mind at ease.  "Dr. Sloan . . ."

"NO!  NO!  NO!"  Steve yelled, "I say.  Yater."

"Shh, Steve," Sara said, putting an arm around Steve's shoulders.  "I'll leave that for you, but your dad is worried.  I just want to explain a little, ok."

Reluctantly, Steve nodded.

"All I wanted to say, Sir," Sara said, turning back to Mark, "was that Steve has something important he needs to talk to you about, but he wants to wait until he can talk better.  For now, you'll just have to trust him that it's not so urgent that it can't wait, and you'll have to accept that it's something he needs to tell you himself."

"All right.  Thank you, Sara."  Catching Steve under the chin, he made his son look him in the eye and said, "I'll wait, Son, until you're ready to tell me, but I don't want it to interfere with your recovery, understand?"

Steve nodded.  "Yes, Da-ad."

Mark visited with Steve, Sara, and MinJe for a few more minutes, all the while trying subtly to elicit information about Steve's secret.  Then he headed off to finish his evening rounds, promising to be back before Steve finished his dinner.

After that first Scrabble game, which Steve called 'grabble,' his pronunciation of words improved dramatically, and over the weekend, he was moved to the residential speech and physical therapy unit.  After he managed to say the _r _sound, his vowels improved quickly and he started saying '-ing'instead of  '-een.'Soon he was saying 'I' instead of 'Aiii', 'yoosay'  and 'yoospeh' instead of 'oosay' and 'oospeh' and he was putting the initial _h _on words like 'hi', 'home', and 'homicide.'  'Talk' was still 'tok,' and 'ep' was now 'hep' instead of 'help,' because the _l_ was hard for him to say, and he tended to leave it out.  At the beginning of words, he said it like a _y_ so 'Elena' was 'Yena' and 'listen' was 'yisten.'  Words with _bl, fl, sl, _and _cl_ were hard for him too, but he quickly mastered the _sp_ and _sh _consonant blends, and he already had the _st_ because it was part of his name.  When people yelled at him as if he were deaf, he delighted in telling them, "Speak sowwwweee.  No shout.  I hear.  Not stupid."

When he got upset, he 'spoke' fluently, but nothing he said made sense.  When he calmed down, his speech was stilted and hesitant, and he left out little words, but what he said was clear and easy to follow, and often, the person listening realized that a few of the words he used when he spoke calmly had been in his tirade when he was agitated.

Also, over the weekend, Cheryl brought in several books of mug shots, and Steve positively identified Bryan Perkins and Reginald Johnson as the men who had attacked him and stole the receipts from Bob's and the violin after the accident.

On the Monday before Thanksgiving, as they were finishing up Steve's morning therapy, Marcus said, "The nurses tell me you haven't been sleeping so well at nights lately."

"Seep ok," Steve said.  "Wake up some."

"I've been talking to Jesse about that, and we have decided that you're probably to the point now where you don't need a morning nap anymore."

Steve grinned.  "Good!  Bout time!"

Marcus laughed and told him, "I thought you'd feel that way, but I have something else for you to do."

Steve looked at him suspiciously and said, "No platic ships!"

Marcus, who was more familiar than anyone with what speech sounds gave Steve trouble, was able to quickly translate and replied soothingly, "No, Steve, we were done with the plastic chips the first day.  You have already mastered everything I could teach you with those."

Steve sighed in relief.  "Good!  What you want, den?"

"Well," Marcus said, "you've come a long way with the strength in your right arm and leg.  Your sense of balance is back to normal, and you don't limp anymore, but you need to work on the dexterity in your right hand."

"So?"

"Your friends Sara and MinJe are going to pick you up for lunch today.  Then they are taking you to your music lesson."

"No!"

Steve looked horrified, but before he could continue his argument, Marcus jumped in.  "Yes!  Steve, Sara talked to Jesse and me and told us how you feel about making music.  And don't worry, Jesse told me not to mention it to your dad."

"Need Mom's viyin."

"No, you don't.  Since Sara can't play with a broken arm, she has already had hers restrung for you.  When you get better, you can pick out a new one for yourself."

"Wan Mom's viyin," Steve pouted.

"I know," Marcus said sympathetically, "but neither you nor I can do anything about that.  One thing you can do is continue practicing.  Then, when the police find your mother's violin, you can play it."

"If."

"If?"

"If peece find viyin."

"Point taken, Steve," Marcus conceded, "but the fact is, you enjoy making music.  You should keep playing.  Besides, music engages the whole brain, especially if you try to sing while you play.  I know that's difficult with the violin tucked up under your chin, but if you just try, if you keep up with your lessons, it will help your recovery in subtle ways.  You might not notice the difference, but it will make a complete recovery more likely."

"Wan Mom's viyin."

"I know, Steve, and I can't solve that problem," Marcus said, "but I can let you go home for Thanksgiving if you go along with me on this."

"H-home?"

"Uh-huh.  Wednesday night, all day Thursday, and you'll be back here for therapy Friday morning."

Steve's face lit up.  He honestly hadn't considered going home before.  With six hours of therapy a day, it just didn't seem practical, and if he were honest with himself, he'd have to admit he didn't feel safe being home alone when he couldn't speak clearly.

"Ok," he agreed, "I practice viyin for now."  Steve settled back with a sigh and a smile and thought about home for a while.


	12. Music Soothes the Savage Beast

**Chapter twelve:  Music Soothes the Savage Beast**

**(November 29th-December 16th)**

"Excellent, Steve," Rachel said as he finished a difficult passage.  "It's amazing how much you've improved in your playing in just the past few days."

"Tanks," Steve said, and blushed a little at the praise.  He knew she was right.  

The first day, he'd had a terrible time working the fingerboard, and had been frustrated to tears that he couldn't play the simple melodies he'd mastered the first week of class before his accident.  MinJe had politely left the room to save him the embarrassment of having another man witness his weeping.  Sara had comforted him, and Rachel had reassured him that the skills would come back in time.  He had wanted to quit then and just go back to the hospital, but Rachel had refused to allow it.  Eventually, she got him to play 'Mary Had a Little Lamb' correctly, and when he started laughing, Sara, with Steve's permission, had told her about the time Steve and his buddy, Ben had bullied another friend, Nicky, into playing his mother's old violin.  With very little coercion, Steve had then agreed to give himself two weeks to get back into the music before deciding whether to quit.

The next day, Sara and MinJe had run some errands while Steve had his lesson.  While they were gone he had he had finally managed to play 'Silent Night' flawlessly, and by the end of the lesson, he was playing all the tunes he had previously learned at almost the same level of proficiency.  Today, he had started working on 'The First Noel', and he was already playing it passably well.  There were a few rough spots, but he would iron them out soon.

As Steve put the violin back in its case and loosened the bow before storing it, Rachel made the mistake of asking, "Have the police made any progress in finding your mother's violin?"

Right away, she saw his back get stiff as he inhaled deeply and turned to face her.  She could see he was hurting and angry.  Before she could apologize for asking about what was obviously still a very sore subject, Steve interrupted her.

"No.  Nuh-ting."

Then he turned around, closed the violin case, and left the music studio without a word.  Sara and MinJe, who had come by to pick him up to go back to the hospital wondered why it was such a quiet trip, but neither of them felt comfortable asking Steve what was wrong.  After seeing him settled in his room, they had called Rachel from the nurses' station.  They readily accepted her explanation and assumed Steve was just feeling bad about losing the family heirloom.  They let Marcus and Jesse know what had happened just so they understood if Steve seemed moody, but no one suspected that Rachel's innocent, concerned question had planted a seed of guilt in Steve's mind.  

Steve had yet to tell his father about the violin.  He was still reluctant to try given that he couldn't yet manage complete sentences.  His improvement in language was slowing down, and he knew it might be some time before he could speak fluently enough to explain adequately how the violin had been lost.

That night, Steve went home for the holiday as planned.  He barely said two words to his father the whole evening, and retired early to his bedroom in the downstairs apartment, but Mark wrote it off to his just being tired and a little overwhelmed at being home for the first time in three weeks.  The next day, when Cheryl, Jesse, Amanda, and her boys came to watch football and enjoy the holiday feast, no one particularly noticed that Steve didn't say much.

Friday morning, in therapy, Marcus noticed.

"Come on, Steve, try!"

"No!"

Steve was working on _l_ words and having little success.  They were sitting on opposite sides of a small table in Steve's room, and Marcus was showing him flashcards.  Steve was supposed to say the name of the object or action shown on the card.  He hadn't yet said one without prompting, and now, he was refusing to repeat after Marcus.

"You have to practice."

"No!  In time."

"Time won't fix this."

"Go to heh!"

"What?  I'm sorry.  I didn't understand that," Marcus said, hoping to harass him into attempting to say 'hell.'

Instead of repeating himself, Steve defiantly took up the much abused and battered bedpan, which had traveled with him to the therapy wing, and threw it across the room.  He glared at Marcus, icy blue eyes daring him to push again.

Marcus knew when the battle was lost.  Very quietly, he closed up his pack of cards, walked over to the computer in Steve's room, called up a part of the speech therapy program, and said, "Fine.  You stay here."  Pointing at the computer screen, he said, "If you feel like working later, use this.  I will see you this afternoon."  Then he walked across the room, picked up the bedpan, and put it on the table near Steve.  "Until then, you might find you'll be needing this again."

As Marcus' initial diagnostic tests had proven, Steve had retained his keen wit, so the parting shot was not lost on him.  Steve glared at Marcus as he left, trying to burn a hole in his back until he was out the door.  Then he put his head down on the table and wept.

When Sara and MinJe came to get Steve for his violin lesson, they found him poking listlessly at the keyboard of the computer.  Images would flash on the screen.  A woman's voice would say the word, a man's voice would repeat it, there would be a pause for Steve to repeat, and then the man, followed by the woman, would say the word again.  Steve was not taking his turn.

"Are you ready to go to your lesson?" Sara asked.

Steve shrugged, then nodded, and finally got up to go without a word.

While Rachel gave Steve his lesson in her studio, she graciously let MinJe practice in the soundproof practice room she had installed just off the garage.  Today, though, instead of practicing his music, MinJe was helping Sara devise a plan to get Steve out of his foul mood.

"Maybe we could take him Christmas shopping," she suggested.  "There must be some things he wants to buy for Jesse, Amanda, CJ, Dion, Alex, and Marcus."

"How would you expect him to pay for them?"

"I noticed he started carrying his wallet on Monday."

At MinJe's puzzled expression, she said, "I saw him put it in his pocket, and just the other day, when he went to the bathroom, I did a little snooping.  He has a credit card in there.  He could use it."

"Perhaps he cannot sign his name yet."

"He can do that just fine.  I was there when he signed the papers transferring him to the rehab wing.  Why don't you want to help him?"

"Sara, I do want to help," MinJe said, "but today is the day after Thanksgiving.  It is the busiest shopping day of the year.  There will be chaos in the malls, and the clerks in the stores will not have the patience to wait for him to speak.  Their frustration will only make things worse for him, and it will be very, very bad."

"We'll protect him from that," Sara insisted.  "If he gives me permission to speak for him, I'll explain to the clerks why his speech is so slow.  Then he can ask us his questions, and when we have a list we can ask the clerk."

The way Sara put things, it sounded perfectly plausible, and MinJe agreed to the scheme against his better judgment, "…but only if it is acceptable to Marcus and Jesse."  

Sara immediately placed a call from the cell phone her father had purchased for her.  Of course, she managed to convince both men that everything would be all right and that the excursion would be good for Steve.  She didn't realize that after the fruitless morning therapy session, Marcus was quite happy to sign off on anything that would shake Steve up a little.  Jesse had not seen his friend yet that day, and not knowing how very down he was, never realized that Steve might not be ready to face the world.

When the lesson was over, Sara and MinJe went round to the studio to collect Steve.  She was fairly bursting with excitement, and he was dreading every moment of the impending shopping trip, but they had agreed not to tell Steve about it, thinking it would be easier to get him to go along once they were halfway there than it would be to get him to agree to the plan before they left Rachel's.  When they entered the studio, Steve left without so much as a word of hello to them or a goodbye to Rachel.  

Sara's eyes followed Steve until he got in MinJe's customized electric blue Mercedes.  Then, she turned to Rachel and said, "What's up with him?"

"I'm not sure," Rachel said, "but his mood has gotten worse since he arrived, and he didn't play well at all today."

"Sara," MinJe said, "perhaps we should reconsider this shopping trip."

"No," Sara said, "I don't think so.  Shopping always cheers me up.  Besides, he needs to do something different once in a while.  Marcus said it would be good for him."

"I know that, Sara, but is today a good day?"

Sara shrugged.  "They don't say, 'No time like the present,' for nothing."

Sara and MinJe had decided to take Steve to a mall near the hospital.  That way, if there was a problem, they could quickly get Steve back to safe and familiar surroundings.  It wasn't until they were just a few blocks from the hospital that MinJe turned left instead of right, and they had traveled several blocks before Steve realized they were heading away from the hospital.

"Where going?"

"Christmas shopping," Sara said brightly, "I thought you could use a change of pace, so I called Marcus while you were with Rachel, and he said it was ok."

"No."

"Oh, don't be a Grinch, Steve.  The only places you've gone for the past three weeks have been to your house and back to the hospital and to Rachel's and back to the hospital.  You need to get out among people before you become a hermit.  You need to get a life."

"Don' wanna."

"Oh, come on!" Sara tried to cajole him, "A little Christmas spirit might cheer you up.  You can think about what you want to give your friends, and maybe even give something to charity."

"Bah humbug!"

Sara laughed.  "That's a start."

When MinJe parked the car, Sara was out like a flash and had Steve's door open.  When he sat there, recalcitrant and refused to move, she reached around him, unbuckled his seatbelt, and started tugging on his hand.

"Steve, you have to at least get something for CJ and Dion," Sara said, remembering how fond he seemed to be of Amanda's boys.  "Once you've done that, or at least looked for something, we can leave.  If you buy something for them today, you won't have to go shopping again."

That seemed to do the trick.  Steve got reluctantly out of the car, and Sara rushed to the mall, pulling him along by the hand.  MinJe followed behind more sedately, hoping they were doing the right thing, and ready to support Steve if he decided to mutiny.

Inside the mall, Steve led the way into the first toy store they passed.  He went toward the back, picked out two coloring books without even looking at them, and holding them up one at a time, said, "CJ.  Dion."

As he turned toward the register, Sara blocked his way.  "You can do better than that."  Arms folded, feet spread wide, she was ready to lay siege to her obstinate friend if need be.  "Just because you are feeling pissy doesn't mean those little boys should get stupid Christmas presents."

Steve looked at the coloring books he had chosen then and had to admit Sara was right.  One of them said 'Hello Kitty' and was clearly meant for a little girl.  The other was a Star Wars coloring book, but the cover had been damaged, and some of the pages were falling out.  Feeling suddenly ashamed of himself, he nodded, put them back and said, "CJ like peece stuff."

"Peace?  Like the little circle with the upside down _Y_ in it?"

"No peace," Steve said holding up his hand in the peace sign.  "Peece."  He took out his wallet and showed Sara his police ID.

"Oh, police."

"Yes.  Peece," Steve frowned as he realized his word wasn't the same as Sara's.  "Say again."

"Po-lice," Sara said slowly for him.

Sara and MinJe could see Steve's lips move as he worked out the word in his head.

"Polllllice.  Police.  Dat me!  Police!"

Grinning happily, Steve looked around for a clerk.  When he spotted a young man stocking shelves, he went up to him and said, "'Skooze me.  Where police stuff?"

When the young man made a slightly confused face, Steve repeated carefully, "Police."

"Models are in aisle one.  Play clothes and outfits in aisle seventeen, and miniatures like Matchbox and Hot Wheels toys are in aisle twelve, and RC cars are in the back in electronics."

"Tank you," Steve said, and headed off toward the remote control toys with Sara in tow.  Only MinJe heard the clerk mutter, "Stupid retard, ought to keep them at home," and though he desperately wanted to correct the young man, he knew doing so would only draw Steve's attention.  Protecting his friend's feelings was more important than educating an ignoramus, so MinJe chose to let it go.

Two hours and five stores later, it appeared that Sara's shopping trip was an enormous success.  Steve had purchased a remote control police car with all the appropriate sound effects for CJ, as much because it would drive Amanda nuts as because he knew the little boy would like it.  For Dion, who had shown an interest in science this year at school, he had found a nice microscope kit with twenty prepared slides, twenty slides for him to fill himself, cover slips, labels, collecting vials, and three petri dishes for growing his own samples, and instructions and tools for growing and collecting pure samples.  Sara helped him select a beautiful, soft yellow sweater and a matching, floaty silk scarf for Amanda, and he decided to get Elena a small Christmas tree necklace, just to show there were no hard feelings.

They were at one of the kiosks on the second floor walkway of the mall looking at laptop accessories and software for Jesse when they heard a woman yell, "Stop him!  He has my purse!"

Steve looked up to see a man running toward them, but on the opposite side of the walkway.  Looking around, he saw a crossing area about half way down the midway and started heading for that, Sara running behind him, and MinJe staying with the packages.  As MinJe watched, he saw Steve pull well ahead of Sara and the purse-snatcher.  Just then, a movie ended at the cinema halfway between him and the crossing, and he saw Sara get caught up in the crowd.  With a feeling of dread, he started to head deliberately for Steve's location while keeping half an eye on the man in the black leather jacket and baseball cap.

Steve was out of shape from his time spent in the hospital, but even on a bad day, he could run faster than the purse-snatcher.  Steve reached the end of the crossing just as the man ran by, and he launched himself at him, making a perfect tackle.  The two men grappled for a few moments until mall security arrived and a big burly guard pulled them apart.

The guards had not heard the woman calling out for help earlier, so naturally, as they struggled to keep hold of both men, they asked for an explanation.

"I don't know," the dark haired man grumbled, knowing that getting the first word in might just be his ticket to freedom.  "I was just on my way home, and the guy jumped me.  I've never seen him before in my life."

"Tief!" Steve shouted, "Tief!" 

Picking up on the obvious impediment, and suspecting his accuser might be mentally disabled, the criminal tried to unsettle Steve by verbally attacking him.  "What do you mean, calling me a thief?  That's slander.  I'll sue!  What have I stolen, huh?  Tell me.  What did I take?  Who did I take it from?  Where is it?"

The man held up his arms, and Steve saw that the purse was nowhere in sight.

Flabbergasted, Steve looked for Sara and MinJe to help, but he had left them both far behind.  He knew he had seen this man running with the woman's purse, but the fact was, he didn't have it now.  Tired from the hours spent shopping, still winded from his sprint through the mall, and confused by the disappearance of the handbag and the very vocal assault, Steve found himself suddenly lost for words.

"I-I-I . . . Heeee . . .Tief!" Steve said insistently, hoping to keep the man and the security guards there until Sara, MinJe, or the woman who'd lost her purse showed up to help.

"Look, mister," the guard said to the petty crook.  "It's obvious this guy ain't all there.  I'm sure he thought he was doing a good deed.  If you're not hurt, do you think you could let it slide?"

"No!" Steve shouted.  "He tief!  He steal!"

The purse-snatcher gave Steve an appraising look and said, "You'll keep him here until I get out of sight?  I don't want him coming after me and attacking me from behind."

"We'll do that," the guard said.  "We'll take him to the security office, settle him down, and call whoever's responsible for him."

"He steal purse!" Steve interjected.

"Shaddup, you!" The guard shouted and shook a meaty fist under Steve's nose.  "I'm trying to get you out of trouble."

The thief thought about it a little, and finally said, "Keep him here until I can get to my car.  I'm outside the northwest exit.  Give me, say, fifteen minutes, and I'll let it slide."

"Thanks, mister," the guard said, "I'll let his keeper know you did him a good turn.  What's your name?"

"Oh, don't worry about that," the crook smiled cheerfully.  "A true act of kindness is always anonymous."

As the man walked away, Steve struggled to get loose and go after him.  "He tief!  He steal!  Stop!  Stop!"

The guard fought valiantly to restrain Steve without hurting him, but when Steve kicked him in the shin, he had all he could take.

"That's it!  I've had enough of you!" he yelled.  Careful not to hurt the man he thought was disturbed and not fully responsible for his actions, but firmly enough to get his attention, the big burly guard lifted Steve bodily into the air, and laid him on the floor on his belly with a thump and an 'Oof' as all the air rushed out of his lungs.  Then he put a knee in the middle of Steve's back, caught hold of his arms, and cuffed his hands behind his back.

Steve continued to kick and struggle as the guard pinned him to the floor.  Only when he heard his name being called and knew help was finally on the way did he stop fighting.

"Steve!" Sara's voice floated up from somewhere behind him.  "Steve!"

"Sara!  Sara, hep!" he yelled back.

"Get off him!" Sara shouted as she came upon the scene to find her friend restrained and surrounded by mall security and curious onlookers.  "Let him go, he's a police detective."

"Yeah, and I'm Mary Poppins," the guard retorted as he picked Steve up off the floor.  "Look, lady, if you can't keep your pet on a tighter leash, you need to leave him home."

Like lightning, Sara's hand lashed out and stung the guard's jaw red.  Another guard grabbed her, and she started screaming.  "Let me go!  Let me go NOW!  He was chasing a purse-snatcher.  Where's the man he was chasing?"

"We let him go.  He didn't have nothin' on him."

"You idiot!  That man was a criminal.  There's a lady up the mall looking for her purse right now, and LET MY FRIEND GO!"

"Lady, that guy ain't no crook and your friend ain't no cop.  Now, shaddup before I do call the police to come get both of you!"

"The police are already here, you fool.  You just put handcuffs on him."

"Perhaps you should check his ID," MinJe suggested, as he arrived on the scene, packages in hand.  "Surely, that will tell you who he is."  Without waiting for a response from the guards, he said in a soothing voice, "Steve, will you let me take out your wallet and show these men your ID?"

Steve, distressed, humiliated, and breathing too hard to speak, nodded silently.

MinJe gently moved around and took his friend's wallet out of his hip pocket.  He opened it up, flipped through a few cards, photos of his father and a woman who must have been his mother, and another, younger, blonde woman who had to have been his sister.  Finally, he found the LAPD identification card and held it up for the guard to see.

"Oh, shit," the guard said.  "But the guy can't hardly talk."

"That is because he was injured a few weeks ago.  He has been working very hard to regain the power of speech, and he is doing very well."  When the guards stood there, still dumbly restraining Steve and now, Sara, too, MinJe added, "Perhaps you will remove the handcuffs now and release the girl, no?"

"Oh!  Yeah."

For a moment all was quiet as Steve's cuffs were removed, but the moment she could see that he was uninjured, Sara cut loose on the guard who had been holding him.  While MinJe led Steve over to a bench, she tore the hapless security officer up one side and down the other.

"What in the hell do you think you were doing, you big bully?"  She walked right up to the guard and thumped him on the chest.  He could have easily withstood her, but when she shoved him, he backed up a step.

"Look, lady, cop or no cop, the man your friend tackled didn't have nothing on him.  He said he was just heading home."

"Oh, I see, and that strikes you as perfectly normal, does it, Barney Fife?" Sara ranted on,  "On the day after Thanksgiving, one of the busiest shopping days of the year, a man accused of stealing a purse is leaving the mall with absolutely nothing, looking perfectly innocent, I'm sure, and you don't question it even a little."

"He said your friend just jumped him."

"Because he had just stolen a lady's purse."

"He didn't have it on him."

"Gee," Sara said obnoxiously, "do you suppose he could have just taken the cash and ditched the purse as he ran?"

"Well . . . "

"Mr. McQuirt," said another guard arriving on the scene with a woman's handbag, "We found this bag in one of the planters down that way," he pointed in the direction the thief had come from.  "Someone saw a guy throw there and run off.  It matches the description of one a woman reported stolen down near the other end of the mall.  She's on her way down here to identify it."

"Do you have a description of the perp?"

"Blue jeans, black leather jacket, dark hair."

"Aw, hell."

"Don't forget the baseball cap.  It was black and had the Padres' white and red logo on it," MinJe said helpfully, and only got a glare for his trouble.

The guard now known as McQuirt got on his radio and requested that all mall security, particularly those near the northwest exit, watch for the dark haired man in a leather jacket and blue jeans wearing a San Diego Padres baseball cap.

"Tell me, McQuirt," Sara began sarcastically, getting in his face, "Does your boss intentionally hire from the shallow end of the gene pool?" 

"Sara," MinJe said in a warning tone, but almost nothing could stop her now she was in full rant.

"Huh?"  McQuirt stepped away, and Sara closed in again.

"My point exactly.  I find it hard to believe _you_ were the fastest sperm."

"Sara," MinJe tried to get her attention again, but she was on a roll.

"Just how often do you take your stupid pills?"  

McQuirt was trying hard to keep away from this annoying woman while he waited for the woman who owned the purse to come confirm that it was hers.  He wouldn't lay another hand on Sara if he could help it, because she had every right to be angry with him, but he wouldn't stand there and have her chew him out like some errant schoolboy either.  Each time she stepped up to him, he'd move a few feet away.

"Sara," MinJe called again as she stepped up to McQuirt one more time.  Like a puppy with a new toy, she just wouldn't stop worrying the man.

"You know, I've heard you can build up a tolerance for them, but I think you've already OD'ed.  I know a couple really great doctors, though, and I'm sure one of them would be happy to . . ."

As McQuirt turned, she turned with him, and caught sight of Steve, huddled on the bench, trembling.  All thoughts of castigating the big bully flew from her head and she ran over to her friend.

"Steve?"

"Go now?" he pleaded softly.

"Oh, Steve, I'm so sorry," she said and put a gentle hand on his shoulder.  He turned and wrapped his arms around her neck and started sobbing.

For the next several minutes, Sara and MinJe comforted their friend.  Sara hugged him and hushed him and rubbed slow circles on his back, and MinJe just sat close by.  When he finally stopped crying, Sara tried to salvage what was left of the afternoon.

"Steve," Sara said, "I hate to take you back to the hospital when you feel this way.  Do you think maybe we could try to have a little fun before we go?  Let's not let that big jerk spoil our afternoon.  They have a great arcade here, and an awesome pet store, and I thought you might like to check out one of the music stores . . . "

"Sara," MinJe interrupted her, "I don't think that's wise."

"Let's let Steve decide, MinJe," she said then looked back to Steve, who was still slightly clinging to her, and said, "We could get something at the food court, too, they even have sushi here."

Steve looked at her and said, "Yuck."

Sara laughed and said, "Or we could have pizza."

"Pizza," Steve said, with some finality, "den music."

"So, you want to stay a little longer?"

"Yes."

On the way to the pizza place Sara recommended, Steve changed his mind and decided he wanted a hamburger instead.  The fast food restaurant wasn't very crowded by the time Steve, Sara, and MinJe got there, and Steve still hadn't made up his mind when he got to the counter.

"Can I help you," asked a pimply-faced teenager with buckteeth and frizzy blonde hair.

Steve nodded at the boy and took a moment to read the signs.

"Well?" the youth said impatiently.

"H-h-hamburger," Steve managed the rather difficult word well enough, but by the time he got it out, he had forgotten what else he wanted and had to look at the signs again.

"Ok, that will be three ten, sir."

"Wai'!  Not done."  

The kid sighed, making his impatience clear.  Though Steve was becoming agitated, he managed to find the next thing he wanted and remember it long enough to say it.

"Yarge fies, too."

"Ok, sir.  That's four eighty-five."

Steve had been going to ask for a drink, but when the kid interrupted him, everything went out of his head.  Not only did he forget what he was going to say, but he also forgot what he had said already, and the only thing he knew was that this kid had no patience for him to try again.

"Never mind," he said sadly, and turned to find a table.

Sara turned from the counter with her tray and saw Steve, sitting at a table with his back to her, resting his head in his hands.  MinJe sat beside him, an arm around his trembling shoulders, and she knew Steve was on the verge of tears again.  She went over and sat down across from them and mouthed to MinJe, "What happened?"

MinJe shook his head, and said, "Steve, we'll go back together, and I will tell him to wait for you to speak."

Steve just shook his head no.  He had been tested to his limits and wasn't willing to try any harder than he absolutely had to now.

"Then tell me what to order, and I will get it for you.  I know you asked for a hamburger and large fries.  What else did you want?"

"Drink."

"Ok, what did you want to drink?"

He shrugged.

"Well, they have Coke, Sprite, Dr. Pepper . . . "

"No soda."

"Ok, did you want, iced tea, lemonade, or punch?"

Steve shook his head.

"Did you want a shake?"

Steve nodded.

"Chocolate, vanilla, or strawberry?"

"Stawberry."

"Ok, you just wait here," MinJe said gently.  "I'll be right back."

Steve nodded.

MinJe left then, and Sara reached out and put a hand lightly on Steve's arm.  "Are you ok?"

Steve just shrugged.  

"Do you want some of my fries?"

Steve shook his head.

"Do you want to go back to the hospital?"

Steve shrugged again.

"I forgot mayonnaise for my fries," Sara lied, doubting Steve would notice the small pond of mayonnaise on her tray.  "Will you be all right while I go get some?"

Steve nodded and put his head all the way down on the table.

Sara walked over to MinJe where he was getting napkins, straws, and assorted other items for himself and Steve and asked him, "What on earth happened?"

"The blond boy was impatient.  He kept interrupting Steve and made him forget his order," MinJe explained as if Sara were a child.  "Steve just gave up."  After a moment, MinJe hissed angrily, "I told you this was a bad idea."

"Steve likes mayonnaise with his fries," Sara said, and walked off.

Steve and MinJe were well into their meals when Sara finally came back, followed by a smiling young man with a round face and smallish features who was not much older than the rest of the staff.  He sat in the booth across from Steve and said, "Lieutenant Sloan, my name is Josh," the young man said slowly and clearly so Steve could follow his words over the background noise of the restaurant.  "I'm the manager here, and your friend Sara told me what one of my workers did.  I am very sorry."

Steve shrugged.  "Kay."

Josh waited a moment more for Steve to reply, but Steve didn't say anything more, so he continued.

"No, Sir, it is not ok.  He was rude, and that is unacceptable.  He will not be working at the counter any time soon."

Steve looked at him quizzically, and he replied.  "Sara told me about your condition, and about the day you've had.  I have an uncle with Broca's aphasia, so I know it's very difficult for you to put words together.  I admire you for having the courage to go on with your day after what happened earlier, and I hope you will accept my apology on behalf of the restaurant and the staff."

Steve smiled slightly, and after a pause while he tried to choose his words, he settled for a simple, "Yes."

Josh smiled back and said, "Apology accepted?"

Steve nodded, "Yes."

"I don't blame you if you never come back here, but I hope you do."  Josh slid him a twenty-dollar book of gift certificates.  "Maybe if you decide not to use these, you can put them in someone's stocking for Christmas."

"Ok."

"Thank you, Sir," Josh said, getting up.  As he left the table, he said, "Have a Merry Christmas."

Steve smiled broadly, clearly feeling somewhat better, and said, "You, too, tanks."

As Sara sat down, Steve sighed contentedly and said, "Tank you, Sara.  Some people still nice."

Sara smiled, "They are, Steve, and Josh meant it when he apologized.  He was very upset with the kid at the counter."

Steve frowned.  "He not know."

"That is irrelevant," MinJe said.  "I have run a clothing store in Koreatown many years.  When you serve people for a living, you should be nice to everyone."

Steve thought about what MinJe had said, and shrugged.  He could think of a lot of things he might like to say back, but he just didn't have the energy to work out the words right now.  He, MinJe, and Sara finished their meals in silence.

"Excuse me, Sir," a youthful voice called as they were leaving the restaurant.  "Excuse me!"

Steve felt a soft tug on his sleeve and turned to see the young man who had been so rude to him earlier.  Under other circumstances, he might have bristled at the forced contact, but this was just a boy, and he had probably never been taught any manners, so he couldn't be held completely accountable for his poor conduct.

"Josh told me about your . . . condition.  I didn't realize, and I didn't mean to make you mad.  Josh really didn't tell me to say this, but I want you to know I'm sorry."  

What the apology lacked in elegance it more then made up for in sincerity.  Smiling, and feeling more hopeful for America's youth than he had minutes ago, he shook the kid's hand and said, "Pahgee 'cepted."

After a moment, the kid smiled and said, "Thank you, Sir.  Have a good day."

As they walked out of the restaurant, Steve said, "Now, music!"

Sara looked at MinJe, her eyes clearly saying, "I told you so," and MinJe just shrugged.  In his opinion, Steve had been through far too much already today.

They spent an hour in the music store, and Steve bought three CD's and a Discman so he could listen to music in his room at the hospital.  Then they went to the arcade, where Sara dragged Steve and MinJe into a four-for-a-dollar photo booth where she spent three dollars getting them to laugh and make crazy faces for the camera.  While they waited for their photos, MinJe surprised Sara and Steve by beating them both at the racing game Sara insisted on playing.  

When they asked about his skill, all he would say was, "My grandson is thirteen."

On their way out, they stopped at a fundraising table set up by the disabled veterans and Steve had his packages gift-wrapped.  He didn't have any cash on him, so he went over to the ATM machine to withdraw twenty dollars.  Sara watched him closely from where she stood and could see his breathing getting faster as he tried to navigate the buttons and commands on the machine.  Eventually it got tired of waiting, and spit his card back out at him.

Sara went over to him and asked, "Do you need some help?"

"No.  Try again."

This time, Steve got his money, and after paying MinJe back for his meal, he donated ten dollars to the disabled vets to thank them for wrapping his packages.

By the time they left the mall, they were in the beginning of rush hour traffic, and knew they'd never get back to the hospital in time for dinner, so they stopped at a drive through on the way.  This time, MinJe automatically ordered for Steve and Sara, because as the driver of the car, he was closest to the intercom, but he sat in the line and patiently waited for Steve to read the menu before driving ahead to the order window.  When the motorist behind them started beeping the horn at them, Sara surreptitiously stuck her finger up at him, having had enough of people being rude to her friend for one day.

Suddenly she started to cry.

Steve finished his order, and then turned in his seat to face her.  "Sara?  What wrong?"

"Oh, Steve," she said, trying to dry her tears.  "I just got mad at the guy behind us for honking, and I realized how people have been treating you all day, and I'm so sorry I made you go to the mall."  Catching MinJe's eye in the rearview mirror, she said, "MinJe, you were right.  It was a bad idea."

"Sara, no.  Bought presents.  Took pictures.  Got music.  Had fun.  Not bad, just . . . difficut."

She sniffled and asked, "Steve, are you sure?"

"Yes.  No harder dan Marcus.  Just diff'rent."

"Promise?"

"Promise!"

"Ok."  

After a few minutes, Steve turned around and looked at Sara.  "Shah-woah end?" he queried.

Sara had to think a minute, but when Steve said, 'Stupid pills,' she had to laugh, and he did too.  

"I've got a million of 'em," she said.  "You can tell a bleached blonde she left the peroxide on too long, and tell a bald main his brain must have fallen out with his hair.  For someone really short, you can put your hand on top of his head and say, 'God shortchanged you on everything, didn't He?'"

Steve laughed at that.  "You collect?"

"Collect?  What?"

"Ways say stupid."

Sara shrugged.  "I guess.  It's just something my friends and I do.  If you can't think of anything else, you can just do this."

Very lightly, she massaged his head with the fingers one hand.  Then, she slowed down and stopped.  She left her hand resting, palm down, on his head until Steve finally asked her, "What dat?"

"My brain sucker starved to death."

Steve and Sara laughed, but MinJe tsk-tsk-tsked at them both and said, "It's very sad that such a clever young woman would waste so much time thinking of ways to shame others."  He was smiling, though, so they both knew he was amused.

They arrived back at the hospital at six thirty to find Mark, Amanda, Jesse, and Marcus all waiting, frantic with worry and furious with them.  After each of them took a turn reading the riot act, which Steve, Sara, and MinJe meekly accepted, Mark finally asked, "Why in the world didn't you call?"

Steve looked to his friends, who were sitting either side of him on the bed and finally looked at his dad and said, "Having fun.  Forgot.  Sorry."

Mark tried to continue fuming and fretting, but his moustache was twitching with amusement.  Finally, he started to laugh and said, "Steven Michael Sloan, you have been using that same excuse since you were six years old.  Tell me what you did today."

"Bought presents, payed arcade, took pictures, used ATM, caught tief, s'curity yet go . . . " Steve opened his mouth in a wide yawn.  "I tired.  Sara, MinJe teh."

It was almost eight by the time Sara and MinJe had summarized their trip to the mall with Steve.  Steve truly was tired, and had been nodding off through the whole conversation, so Mark gently nudged everyone out the door.  Then he sat in the chair by Steve's window while his son got ready for bed.

"I guess you had quite a day today, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Not everything went smoothly, did it?"

Steve shrugged, and from that simple gesture, Mark knew some of the things he hadn't been told had hurt his son very deeply.

"Want to talk about it?"

"No."

"I'll be patient while you find your words, if that's why you're saying no."

"No.  Just tired."

"You sure?"

"Yes, Dad," Steve paused a minute, then added, "Some peepoh mean, some peepoh nice.  I ok."

"All right, Son."

Steve put a CD in his new Discman, planning to listen to it as he drifted off to sleep.  It was a new copy of the Christmas Classic CD that had been in his truck when he had the accident.  He wanted to work on the "First Noel" some more when he went back to Rachel's on Monday.  Then he walked over to his father and said, "'Night, Dad."

Mark stood up to go, and was surprised when Steve wrapped him in a hug.  He returned the embrace, gently patting Steve on the back and said, "Goodnight, Son."

As he walked out of the hospital room that night, he was sure he heard Steve say, "Love you," and had to wonder what he'd been through that day to make him so demonstrative.  When he turned to reply, though, Steve already appeared to be sleeping soundly.

The next two weeks saw tremendous gains and setbacks for Steve.  Though his speech improved slowly but steadily, his moods swung from good to bad more often than a pendulum.  He became so unpredictable, and would get so violently angry that Jesse was considering giving him a mild antidepressant.  Whenever he became terribly agitated, his speech was still horrendously hard to comprehend, but, more worrisome still, he would be very uncommunicative for a while after.  Finally, after one particularly distressing incident, Mark insisted on an MRI to be sure there hadn't been some injury they'd missed earlier.

Two weeks before Christmas, on a Sunday night, Steve woke up and couldn't get back to sleep.  After tossing and turning for an hour, he decided to listen to one of his Christmas CD's.  He was still holding out a slim hope that his mother's violin might be found before he had to tell his father that it was gone, and he wanted to develop a good repertoire so he could play requests at his dad's Christmas party.

He reached into the drawer of the over the bed table where he kept his CD's, and found neither the Discman nor the music.  Confused and befuddled, he turned the light on low and looked inside the drawer.  What he sought was nowhere to be found.  

_"Come on,"_ he muttered to himself, _"_Where_'d _I put_ the damned thing?"_

He turned to the cupboard beside the bed and opened the drawer there, but still couldn't find what he was looking for.  His head was starting to ache, and he was becoming more agitated the longer he looked.  He was now locked into the idea that the CD's and Discman should be where he always kept them, so he never thought to look elsewhere, or he would have found them by the computer where he had been listening to them earlier as he had practiced his typing.  He went back to the table, and found nothing.

_"Of course it _no matter_ anyway if _dey no find_ the _viyin_,"_ he grumbled.

Suddenly, a vast rage surged up inside of him.  He could bear no more, and he shoved the table away, knocking it over.  Then he turned to the bedside cupboard and grabbed the bedpan and hurled it across the room shouting, _"Dammit!  Dammit!  Dammit!  _Aiiidey no find?_  Where's my mom's_ viyin_?"_

"What in the world is wrong?" one of the weekend nurses shouted over his tirade.  "Mr. Sloan, are you all right?"

Steve pointed at the bedpan and jabbered something at her.  She knew that when she worked on his floor before he'd been moved to the rehab unit that he had been slightly paralyzed and unable to speak as a result of a head injury, so all she could do was fetch him the bedpan.  When she handed it to him, he threw it away again and continued yelling.

"Do you need some help to get to the bathroom, Mr. Sloan?"

_"_No,_ dammit.  _Aiii need_ my _CD's_ and my Discman and my mom's _viyin _.  _Yust breen_ me the bedpan and my _CD's _and Discman and the _viyin_."_

Since he shook his head no, pointed at the bedpan, and continued shouting, the nurse fetched it back, and Steve beat it on the bedrails, shouting all the while, before throwing it again.

"Let's just get you into the bathroom, Mr. Sloan," the nurse said soothingly, taking his arm.

Steve pulled violently away from her, and continued shouting, _"Find my damned _CD's!  _I _wan_ my _moosic_!  I _wan _Mom's_ viyin_!"_

The nurse was beginning to put two and two together.  Unfortunately, she was coming up with five.  Her patient seemed to be very angry at the bedpan, and he refused to let her take him to the bathroom.  He was getting more and more agitated, and was on the verge of tears.  She needed to do something to help him.  

"I'll be right back, Mr. Sloan.  Please, just try to calm down."

_"Where the hell's my _moosic_?"_ Steve yelled after her.  _"I want my discman and _CD's _now!_  Hep_ me find _dem.  Hep_ me find the_ viyin._"_

The nurse came back with a paper dose cup containing a little pink pill and a cup of water.

_"_No_ even _twy_ to sedate me_, yady_,"_ Steve yelled pointing at the dose up, _"I won't let _oou_."_

"It's just a laxative, Mr. Sloan.  It will make you feel better soon."  As she moved closer, Steve drew away, pressing himself into the mattress.

_"_Aii no need adam_ laxative,"_ Steve replied.

"Mr. Sloan, I'm sorry, I don't understand," she took another step closer, and Steve drew his legs up and moved to kneel at the head of the bed.

To the young woman's surprise, her patient grabbed the urinal that was hanging on the side of the bed and hauled back to throw it at her.

"What's going on in here?" Mark cried as he came rushing into the room to find his son about to throw the thankfully empty urinal at the nurse.  He had been called in late when one of his patients took a turn for the worse, and, having stabilized the patient, he was just heading for the door and home when he had been paged to Steve's room.

"Dr. Sloan!  He . . . he threw the bedpan.  I tried to help him to the bathroom, but he wouldn't go.  I . . . I thought . . . that is . . . This is a laxative.  To help him go."

"I don't n-n-need a damnnnnned l-l-laxative," Steve slurred, "D-dad, tellll herrr."

His father stood gaping at him for a moment, and Steve repeated, "Telll herr!"

Without a word, Mark waved the nurse away.  "Steve, Son, you're talking.  Really talking.  Say something else."  

Steve remained silent a moment.

"Please," Mark pleaded.

"I love you, Dad."

Any joy Mark might have felt at hearing those words was lost in the anguish of worry he felt as his son promptly burst into tears yet again.  He spent that night at Steve's bedside, first comforting him and holding him close, then trying to find out what had set him off, tracking down the Discman and CD's Steve had so desperately wanted, and finally, watching in wonder as Steve placed his headphones over his ears, sighed, smiled, and drifted happily off into a sound sleep.  Music did indeed soothe the savage beast.  Mark held his son's hand through the night, needing to be there even more than Steve needed him.

If Mark expected a battle the next morning when he asked Steve to consent to an MRI, he was sorely disappointed.  Though he was as uncommunicative as he always was after an outburst, he was also cooperative.  Whether this accommodating attitude was just a variation on the moodiness theme that had been plaguing his son for weeks or whether it was yet another new wrinkle in an already complex situation, Mark wasn't sure, but it had him worried.

In the imaging lab, Steve obligingly stepped behind the privacy screen, and without a word of complaint about the cold, changed into the paper thin gown that would cover him during the scan.  He emerged from behind the screen, barefoot and compliant, and followed his father into the room with the scanner.  He only balked once, when he looked at the large imaging machine and sized up the small tunnel he would be sliding into.

"I no s'pose we cud wait to dey get an open scanner, huh?" Steve said with a grin.

Mark was pleased to hear his son finally using full sentences, though some of the words were still slightly garbled, but he was also too worried to joke with him.

"No, Steve, I've been trying for years to get the board to purchase one, but this won't wait."

"Damn."

Steve had been claustrophobic ever since he'd spent one too many nights in a dumpster masquerading as a drunk on an undercover assignment.  Mark knew lying motionless inside the massive machine, earplugs stuffed in his ears while the thing thumped and banged around him, would be an ordeal for him.  So, after he'd helped his son up onto the rollaway table that would glide him smoothly into the scanner tunnel, he took Steve's hand and tried to soothe him.

"Close your eyes and think of the ocean, Steve, and it will be over before you know it."

Mark actually heard the gulp before Steve answered, "'Kayyy," and his heart skipped a beat.  Just yesterday, he was saying, "Ok."

As the technician manipulated the controls that took Steve into the depths of the machine, Mark held his hand until the last possible moment.  He heard Steve gasp when he finally had to let go, and he promised him, "I will be just over in the control room, Steve, and I'll be right here as soon as they are finished."

"'Kay, Dad.  Tanks," Steve said, and the fear in his voice emphasized the childlike quality of his words.

When Steve emerged from the scanner two hours later, he was soaked with sweat and trembling with cold and fear.  Once Mark helped him sit up, he wrapped his arms around his father's middle and clung to him for reassurance that he had not died in that dark little tunnel.  Mark stood beside him and stroked his too-short hair and rubbed his back for a long while.  As soon as he was steady enough to stand, Mark walked him back behind the privacy screen and helped him change into his own clothes.  Then he coaxed him into a wheelchair and took him back to his room.

Once Steve was showered and settled comfortably in bed, Mark contacted Marcus, told him about the events of the previous night and about taking Steve for the MRI and suggested that it might be a good day for him to take a break from therapy.  Then Mark sat beside the bed and watched Steve sleep the day away.

When the results of the MRI scan were delivered, they showed nothing new, and Mark worried all the more, for that meant that they still had no adequate explanation for why Steve was so volatile.


	13. Christmas Carol

**Chapter thirteen:  Christmas Carol**

**(December 24th)**

"I just wish we could figure out what's making him so moody," Mark said as he walked down the hall of Community General with Jesse at his side.  

It was eight in the morning on Christmas Eve Day, and he was there to take Steve home for good.  About a week after the outburst that had precipitated the fruitless MRI ordeal, his speaking and writing improvements had leveled off.  He had been struggling to read and write cursive for a couple of weeks, and eventually something just clicked.  His handwriting was still shaky, but it would improve with time and practice.  When he spoke or wrote, he now used complete sentences most of the time, with all of the necessary pronouns and prepositions and though he still had some trouble with certain consonants and blends, his words were plain and clear enough for anyone to understand.  His biggest problem was that he often got stuck for words, and that frustrated him no end.  He no longer used gibberish when he was upset, but he would lapse into long, furious silences as he struggled to find the right word.  As often as not, when that happened, he would eventually dismiss his conversation partner with a wave of his hand and go off somewhere and sulk.

Jesse had a pretty good idea why Steve was 'so moody,' but he had promised not to tell Mark about the violin.  Once Steve had started speaking plainly and clearly, Jesse had tried to convince him to talk to his dad about what had happened, but Steve had insisted that he needed more time.

"I c-can't explainnnnnn . . . w-when half the worrrrrrrds . . . when I can't remememember . . . I g-get s-stuck," Steve had said, and having just been presented with the proof of that argument, Jesse found he couldn't offer any rebuttal.  Still, he was determined that after the holidays either he or Steve would have to tell Mark about the violin.

Steve sat quietly in his room, dreading his father's arrival with every fiber of his being.  He wanted desperately to go home, but then he knew, he'd have to actually talk to his dad, and sooner or later, he'd have to talk about the violin.  He couldn't get away with rolling over and pulling up the covers anymore, and he'd have to face up to what he'd done.

He tried to look cheerful when his father and Jesse showed up with Marcus and Elena in tow, but it was too much for him to convincingly carry off.  Smiling woodenly, he gave Elena the Christmas tree necklace he had bought for her on that arduous first shopping trip.  When she opened it, she thanked him with a hug and a kiss and asked him to put it on her.  Everyone waited patiently for several minutes while he fumbled with the clasp, but he finally had to admit that his right hand didn't have the same dexterity it used to, and he asked Jesse to do it for him.

After everyone had a chance to admire Elena's necklace, Steve surprised Marcus by handing him a small package.  Its contents, a palm pilot, had been the subject of much debate between Steve and his father for three reasons.  First, Mark thought it was a rather extravagant gift for someone Steve had only known a few weeks, but Steve insisted it was only a small token of appreciation for all that Marcus had helped him get back.  Mark had then argued that it was Marcus' job to teach Steve to speak again and that it was inappropriate to give him such an expensive gift under the circumstances.  Steve agreed it was his job to help him talk, but he was not required to put up with all the temper tantrums and sulks that came with having him for a patient.  Finally, Mark was concerned that Steve was suffering some undetected brain damage that had affected his understanding of numbers and money.  Steve had spent the next hour breaking down his income and expenditures to convince Mark that he still knew the value of a dollar and he knew how much the palm pilot had cost, not only in dollars and cents, but in hours worked, hours of paperwork, time at Bob's, rent from his house, and returns on his other investments.  By the time he had finished, Mark knew more about his son's finances than he had since Steve had earned his first paycheck.

"Damn, Steve," Marcus said.  "Now you've really embarrassed me.  I got you a gift, too, but it's really just a gag gift."

"That's ok, Marcus. . . I . . . dis isn't for Chrisssstmas. . . dis is . . .tank . . ." Steve focused hard and tried again.  "This isss . . . a thank you g-gift . . .  I could . . . nnnever r-repay you . . . for what you hhhave heped me . . . g-get back."

"Hey, man, that's my job."

"Y-you w-went abovvve and b-beyonnnd th-the c-call."

Marcus smiled and nodded.  Opening the bedside cupboard, he took out a rather large package he had concealed there while Steve was in the shower.

"Remember, this is a gag gift.  Please don't be disappointed."

"I w-won't.  It's the . . . th-thought . . . that c-counnnnts."

Steve opened the box to find the beat up bedpan he had thrown so many times, now with a broad-leafed houseplant growing in it.

"The plant is called a dieffenbachia, or dumb-cane, because if the sap gets in your mouth it can cause temporary loss of speech.  I figure the bedpan makes a great planter, and the dumb-cane is right where it belongs."  

Marcus looked at him very seriously, then, and extended his hand to shake.  "Steve, your progress has been incredible.  If you keep working and keep trying, you'll be ok."

Steve took the offered hand, and used it to pull Marcus into a bear hug.  For a long moment the two men, initially adversaries and now friends, embraced.

"I will w-work, Marcus . . . and I l-l-like what you s-said  . . . about th-the plant.  Th-thank you."

Steve hugged Marcus and Elena once more each and then, to Mark and Jesse's great surprise, sat in the waiting wheelchair without a word of complaint.  All he had to carry home was Marcus' gift, and a small valise containing his pajamas, his Discman and CD's, and one change of clothes.  Everything else he had accumulated had been sent home with his father in bits and pieces in the few days prior to his discharge.

"L-l-let's go hommme, Dad."  He did not see the look of concern that flew between Mark and Jesse over his head.

After Carol's death, Mark had found himself wanting to go back to the way things were when his children were small.  More than ever before, he seized every opportunity to draw his friends and family near him, and Christmas was a perfect time for reviving old traditions.  When Steve and Carol were children, each member of the Sloan family had chosen a favorite holiday story to read during the day, and then, after dinner the whole family would gather and he would read each of their stories aloud.  They would sit and play board games and talk until midnight when they would open the gifts they had got each other.  The children would be allowed to play with their new toys for a while, and then Mark and Catherine would take them up to bed and he would sing them off to sleep.  Even when he was twelve years old, on Christmas Eve, Steve would let his father sing him lullabies.

This year, Mark had planned something similar well ahead of time, and after the accident, as soon as he had started talking again, Steve had insisted that the celebration go on as scheduled.  Instead of reading stories, though, Mark had succumbed to the digital age and encouraged his guests to bring videos and DVD's as well as books.  Amanda and Ron, CJ and Dion, and Alex and Jesse were all going to spend Christmas Eve Day with the Sloans.  The celebration was set to begin at ten in the morning, and Mark planned to spend the entire day and night watching movies and enjoying time with his son and their friends.  Amanda was already at his house setting out the food and drinks, and Ron would arrive later with the boys.  Jesse would be following him and Steve from the hospital, and Alex, who was scheduled to work until five would arrive just in time for dinner.

As he placed Steve's valise and plant in the car, he just prayed that his son would not lose his temper with one of their guests and ruin the celebration for everyone.  Mark knew he could deal with Steve's sullen silence by pretending not to notice.  Sooner or later, he always managed to draw him out that way, but if Steve went in to a full-blown rage, it could be disastrous.  Though he loved his son with all his heart, he didn't want the angry, shouting Steve to show up at his Christmas party.  The past year had been too hard on all of them, and he simply couldn't deal with a temper tantrum today.

Feeling suddenly guilty that he could no longer accept his beloved son just the way he was, Mark decided he would simply have to minimize the chances of Steve blowing up.  He got behind the wheel thinking that would be so much easier if he just knew what set Steve off.  He would have to make sure everyone remembered to be patient when talking with Steve, and he would have to remind CJ and Dion, and especially Ron, who hadn't seen Steve since last summer, to give him plenty of time to speak and to make sure he was finished before they replied.  Then of course, there was the matter of background noise.  He couldn't just eliminate the videos, but he could make sure the dining room was a quiet place where Steve could go to talk with his friends by setting up the snacks in the kitchen or on the card table in the living room.

Mark wondered if he could convince Steve to take CJ down to his apartment for a nap after dinner.  For the child, it would be easy enough to convince him to rest so that he would be able to stay awake later in the evening and open his presents at midnight.  But how would he talk Steve into catching a little sleep himself?  He was just trying to decide whether he needed to argue forcefully or give a gentle, concerned suggestion when Steve's voice broke into his thoughts.

"Whyyy so q-quiet, Dad?"

"Oh, I was just thinking," Mark said.

"Ab-bout w-what?"

"Today is a big day for you.  Just going home is enough of a change.  I was wondering if you might be having second thoughts about the party."

"No, Dad . . . I'll b-be f-finnne."

"Are you sure?  I don't mind cutting it back, maybe sending everyone home after dinner, or even canceling altogether."

"I s-said no, D-dad . . . I h-have been l-lookinnng f-f-forward . . . to th-this . . . for w-weeks."

"Ok, Son.  If you change your mind anytime today, just let me know."

"Ok.  I will . . . but I wonnn't."

By the time the party started, Mark found they had amassed quite an eclectic collection of movies.  Interestingly enough, Steve had chosen _It's a Wonderful Life_ when he went to the rental shop with Sara and MinJe the day before, and Mark had to wonder if it was a heartfelt sentiment, or if it was just easier than reading all the titles and choosing one he really wanted to see.  He knew Steve was disappointed that his new friends had declined his invitation to the party, but Steve had understood that they both had their own families to celebrate with.  For MinJe, it was a long-standing tradition to throw a party for his employees at the clothing shop and then to have his extended family spend the night.  For Sara, it was the first time she could remember having a tree and presents.

No one was surprised when Jesse's video was _Die Hard_, though Amanda had tried to argue that it wasn't really a Christmas movie.

"What do you mean?  It is so a Christmas movie," Jesse told her as he helped cut up the carrots for the vegetable tray.  

"John McClane is a cop who wants to get reunited with his wife Holly on Christmas Eve.  She works at a huge business building, and just as he arrives at the Christmas party and meets up with her, the bad guys come in, take hostages, and kill the CEO.  He spends the rest of the movie chasing them down and running from them, shooting them and getting shot, and in the end, he winds up in his loving wife's arms.  What could be more Christmassy than that?"

"Oh, I don't know," Amanda said as she stirred the dip ingredients together, "a root canal?"

"Yeah, well, that _Nutcracker_ thing isn't even a movie," Jesse argued as he carried the last tray out to the snack table Mark had set up in the living room.  "It's just a bunch of really skinny women in really short tutus being carried around by guys in really tight pants.  Just the name of it is enough to make a guy nervous."

Steve was sitting there, flipping idly from station to station, watching coverage of the various Christmas parades when he heard Jesse's comment and laughed.  "Good onnne, Jess."

"Oh," Amanda said brusquely, "You think that's funny, do you?"  Steve was about to reply, but with her back to him, she couldn't tell he was trying to work out his words, and so continued right along with her little lecture.  "I'll have you know _The Nutcracker_ is one of the best loved Christmas programs around.  It's a classic, and it won't hurt either of you to get a little high culture one day a year."

Steve sighed, his opportunity for comment gone.  When she was finished, he just said, "Ok.  Sorry Amannnda.  We w-will w-watch it with y-you."

By the time he had finished speaking, she was already back in the kitchen helping Mark get drinks for everyone, but she called out, "Thank you, Steve, but you and Jesse don't have to."

"It's ok.  W-we w-will."

"Speak for yourself, buddy," Jesse told him.

Steve shot him a wicked grin and said, "I do."

Ron arrived just after ten with CJ and Dion in tow.  He had agreed to mind the boys for Amanda while she helped Mark prepare for the party, and to his own surprise, he had a great time, but there was no denying where their real affections lay when they entered the Sloans' living room.  Both boys took one look at Steve, and flew into his arms, yelling "Uncle Steeeeve!" and fought to sit beside him on the couch.

Ron was surprised how easily he greeted CJ and Dion.  He had the impression that Steve could still barely speak, but he chatted so comfortably with the boys, that if he didn't know Steve before the accident he might have just thought him a slow talker.

"Hi, g-guys.  H-How are you?"

"Really good, Uncle Steve.  Ron gave us our presents early," CJ said.

"Oh? . . . What did he g-get you?"

Dion spoke for them this time.  "I got a new game for my PlayStation, and he gave CJ a real keyboard."

Ron saw Steve's confusion and was glad to know he wasn't the only one who had thought the child wanted a computer keyboard for Christmas.  But Steve had the advantage, now that CJ had received the present.  He covered his puzzlement nicely as he looked to CJ and said, "Wow!  You got a k-keyboard?"

CJ nodded then and told him all he needed to know, "Uh-huh.  It has seventy-two keys, just like a piano, and Mom's going to get me lessons for Christmas."

"Ohhhh, I d-didn't know you w-werrre innnterested in music."

"I didn't either, until they let us play with the instruments at school.  I really like the piano because it can make more than one sound at a time."

"I s-see.  M-maybe you c-cannn play s-sommmething for Uncle Mark and m-me sommmetime.  H-he has a k-keyboard, too."

"I know, and I'll do that, but I haven't learned any songs yet.  My lessons don't start until January."

"Ohhhh, welll, I'll be l-looking forrrward t-to it."

Steve got up then and crossed the room to where Ron was standing.

"I-it's g-good to ssssee y-you.  Th-thanks for c-commming."

"It's good to see you, too, and I'm flattered to be invited, Steve," Ron held out his hand to shake, but to his surprise, Steve drew him in for a hug.  For a moment, he stiffened, but then he relaxed when he realized his friend and sometimes colleague was genuinely glad to see him.  

Stepping back from the hug, he looked at Steve and said, "You look good.  How do you feel?"

"I'm ok," Steve said, "I-I just talk s-slow.  It's g-gettinnng b-better, though."

"You thought it was for a computer, too, right?" Ron asked, anxious to be sure he wasn't the only one who didn't get it.

Steve thought a moment, then said, "Yes.  W-why?"

"Because Amanda laughed at me when I asked her about it."

Steve laughed too, and said, "Sheee's a w-woman.  Y-y-you're j-just supposssed to know th-these th-thinnnngs."

Ron grinned, and was about to reply, when Steve looked down to find CJ tugging his sleeve.

"Uncle Steve?" CJ asked.

"Yesss?"

"When are you gonna start talking right?  You sound like a kid I go to school with, and some of the other kids make fun of him.  Do people make fun of you?"

"CJ!"  Amanda, Ron, and Dion all gasped as Jesse and Mark just looked on in horror.

Steve smiled down at the confused child and said, "I d-don't knowww  w-whenn I w-will t-talk rrright againnn, CJ . . . b-but sommmeday, I w-will.  S-sommme people d-do . . . mmake f-fun of mme, b-but I d-don't nnneed them  . . . f-for friennnds annnywayyy . . . D-do y-you mmmake f-funnn . . . of th-the b-boy at ssschooool?"

CJ looked at Steve and said quite honestly, "I used to in kindergarten, Uncle Steve, but one time I made him cry and I felt so bad I apologized.  He stopped crying, and Matt and I have been friends ever since.  That's two whole years!"

"Wowww.  G-good f-for y-you."

"And I don't pick on anybody anymore either!" the child added for good measure.

"That's a lie," Dion said.

"Well, you're my brother," CJ shot back.  "You don't count."

The adults all laughed at the good-natured banter between the siblings, and CJ just went back to watching his movie on television.  He had brought three of them, and right now, _The Grinch Who Stole Christmas_ was on.  As Steve carried Ron and the boys' coats to the spare room, Mark followed him in.

When Steve turned around to go rejoin the party, he was surprised to find his dad standing between him and the door, beaming.

"Dad?"

"Son, I just had to tell you how proud I am of you right now."

"Ok, whyyy?"

"That little talk you just had with CJ is the longest speech you have made since the accident, and you did it beautifully."

Steve just shrugged.  "CJ's eeeasy.  H-He's honnest.  W-whennn he asks, he really . . . w-w-wants to knowww."  

When Mark remained silent, Steve looked at him shrewdly and realized there was more to his father's pride than met the eye.  Finally, he realized that his father, besides seeming genuinely proud, looked utterly relieved as well.

"Donnn't worrrry, Dad . . . I w-wonnn't ssspoil y-your parrrty."

"Steve, Son . . ."

"No, D-dad, it's ok.  I know I h-havven't b-beennn eeeasy t-to g-get alonnnng with. . . .  I d-don't b-blame you f-for worryinng.  If I g-get m-m-mad orrr up . . . set I willl g-go downnnstairrrs . . . and y-you c-can sennd Jessseeee to check onn meee."

"All right, Son, I'll do that, but I also want you to remember that if you want everybody to go home, you just have to say so and I will ask them to leave, ok?"

"Ok.  But I w-wonn't d-do th-that.  Th-this parrrtyy is as immmporrrtant to me as it is to y-you."

"And I really am proud of you, Son."  Mark's arms were aching to hug his beloved child.  For weeks he had watched as Steve had struggled to say first words, then phrases, and now, he was finally able to speak sentences.  Mark could only hope and pray that the coming weeks and months would bring more progress.  Suddenly, he knew he could not get through the day, without hugging Steve and decided it would be better done here in the privacy of the guestroom than out among their guests where it would likely embarrass him.

Mark was surprised when, as he opened his arms and stepped toward his son, Steve stepped willingly into his embrace and returned the hug.

"I l-lovvve you, D-Dad."

"I love you, too, Son."

When father and son returned to the living room, their guests were watching _The Santa Clause_ starring Tim Allen.  Steve laughed harder at finding out that it was Ron's movie of choice than he did at any of the jokes in the movie itself.

"Why do you think that's funny?" Ron asked in his characteristic monotone.

"Becaussse you n-n-nevver smmmile."

"That doesn't mean I haven't got a sense of humor."

"C-could h-have fooled meee," Steve replied and then laughed.  

Ron waited patiently, sensing that Steve had more to say, and when Steve spoke again, he almost wished he'd interrupted.

"Sommetimess y-you are ssso ssstiff . . . I'mmm not surrre you havvve a pulse."

"Oh, trust me," Amanda said, "the man has a pulse."

Steve closed his eyes and shuddered.  "T-t-too mmmuch innnf-formmation, Amannnda."

"Anyway," Ron said, trying to change the subject quickly, "I like Tim Allen's movies.  He's . . . What do the kids say now?  'Pretty fly, for a white guy.'"

Steve laughed at him again.  "K-kidss d-donn't sayy that mmuch annymore.  Y-you're b-behind."

They watched all of Ron's movie and two others and though Steve watched him closely, Ron never cracked a smile, except when he was looking at Amanda and the boys.  He sincerely hoped some day things would work out so that the FBI agent and Amanda could be more than friends.

After dinner, Amanda, with some prompting from Mark, suggested that Steve take CJ downstairs for a nap.  As he had suspected earlier, CJ, being a cooperative child, was quite willing to have a little sleep after the meal so long as someone promised to wake him in time to open presents.  Steve, being somewhat more recalcitrant, only complied with his father's wishes when the little boy begged him to read him a story.

For some reason none of them could fathom, Steve could now read aloud perfectly.  Marcus' theory was that since the words were right in front of him, he didn't have to figure out what he wanted to say and could just go on quite naturally.  Since it was something he knew he could always be successful with, Steve was quite eager to read aloud any chance he got.  So, it was with a big grin and a willing heart that Steve went downstairs to his apartment with CJ and a couple of books to tuck the child in for a nap and read him off to sleep.

Half an hour later, Mark went down to check on them, and as he was hoping, Steve, stretched out on top of the covers, had dozed right off along side of CJ.  The only problem was, CJ was still awake and quietly looking through one of his books.  When he looked up and saw Mark, he smiled, put a finger to his lips, and whispered, "Shhh!  Uncle Steve was real tired and he fell asleep before he finished my story."

Mark hid a chuckle at the child's serious tone and asked, "What was he reading to you?"

"This," CJ said softly, and held up a copy of ''Twas the Night Before Christmas.'  "He didn't like 'The Snowman' because he had to make up his own words."  Opening the book, he added, "He stopped here.  Will you finish for me?"

Mark had to stifle another laugh when he realized Steve hadn't even gotten to the naming of the reindeer.  "Well, if you get under the covers and lay real still, I'll start from the beginning for you, ok?"

CJ nodded and eagerly crawled under the blanket.

"'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house . . . "

By the time Mark finished with, "Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night," CJ had curled back into the warmth of Steve's body and was snoring softly.  Mark bent over, and kissed the little boy on the head, then, unable to resist, he did the same to his grown up son.

Mark was extremely dismayed when, two hours later, Steve and CJ came up the stairs, and while CJ was refreshed and lively, Steve was grim and brooding.

"Son, are you ok?"

"Fine, Dad."

"You sure?"

"Yes, Dad."

The fact was, Steve was dreading the coming gift exchange.  He hadn't been able to think of anything but the violin since the accident, and he had been unable to find any other gift that would be adequate for his father.  Now he had nothing to give Mark, and while his dad would play it down and say he was just glad to have his son home, Steve knew his father would be worried, if not hurt, by his seeming thoughtlessness.  Midnight was still three hours away, and Steve knew, if the tension in his gut did not ease soon, he would be quite ill by then.

And he would still have to explain about the violin.

At ten o'clock, Aunt Dora called, and though Mark explained that talking on the telephone was very difficult for Steve, she insisted on wishing him a Merry Christmas personally.

"H-hi, Aunt Dorrra,"

"My goodness," she said, "you do have trouble talking.  I thought your father was exaggerating, but you sound like you've been drinking.  Well, I just wanted to tell you Merry Christmas, Steve."

Steve was about to tell her he was sober as a judge and wish her a Happy Holiday, too, when she said, "Ok, you can put your father back on now." 

When Steve handed the phone back to him, Mark could see that his usually bright blue eyes were now the gray of a stormy sea.

"Dora, what on earth did you say?"

After lecturing his sister on manners, courtesy, and sensitivity, Mark hung up the phone and went to his son.

"Your Aunt offers her apologies, Steve."

"It's ok, th-that'sss jussst Aunt Dorrra."  Steve turned back to the TV, and Mark knew that matter was closed for discussion.

"So, it's almost midnight, Son," Mark persisted, "Aren't you going to give me any hints about my surprise?"

Without a word, Steve got up and walked away to get himself a drink.  Then he headed out onto the deck.  Mark was about to follow him when, the phone rang again, and a woman's voice, not entirely unfamiliar to Mark, said, "Could I please speak to Jesse Travis?"

Puzzled, Mark handed over the phone to his young friend.  Jesse took the phone out to the quiet of the kitchen, and as Mark watched him, his curiosity grew.  An enormous grin suddenly lit up Jesse's face and he began bouncing on the balls of his feet.  He spoke animatedly for a while, and then finished with, "Oh, that is so awesome!  I'll take care of it."

"Good news?" Mark asked as Jesse returned to the living room and hung up the phone.  

"Just the hospital" Jesse said, savagely crushing a smile.  "A question about one of my patients."

Mark looked at Jesse, "You're lying."

Jesse grinned at him then, "Yep."

When Steve came back into the room, Jimmy Stewart as George Bailey was rescuing Clarence the angel from the river in _It's a Wonderful Life._  Mark noticed that his eyes and nose were red now, and though it might well have been from the cold, for some reason Mark thought it was from tears.  Steve seemed to be moving in a bubble of sadness and foul humor, and while Mark wanted badly to punch through that barrier to comfort his son, he knew this was neither the time nor the place.  Silently, he prayed that they would all make it through the evening without a major blowup and turned his attention to Steve's movie.

Every so often, Steve could feel his dad watching him.  Part of him just wanted to turn and scream at Mark, part of him wanted to break down and cry and confess the loss of the violin.  He knew the way he was feeling, he should just excuse himself and go downstairs before he ruined the evening for everyone, but the terrible secret he was hiding had him feeling so sad and alone as it was, he couldn't bear to go off on his own now.

As Mark watched his son watching the movie, he could see a flurry of emotions run through him.  Desperate to help, but not knowing what to do or say, Mark finally settled for resting a hand on Steve's arm to let him know he was not alone.  For a moment, Steve tensed, and then, as he had done many times when he was a little boy, he turned his wrist, slid his arm through his father's grasp, and squeezed Mark's hand.  

Steve looked at his father, eyes brimming with tears, and said, "D-dad, I . . ."

Before he could make his confession, the doorbell rang and the moment was shattered.

"I've got it," Jesse said as if he'd been waiting for it, and he was out of his chair like a shot.  A moment later, he was back in the living room, "Steve it's for you."

"Well, t-tell th-themmm to c-commme inn," Steve said.

"They don't want to," Jesse said grabbing Steve by the wrist and hauling him most unceremoniously out of his chair.  "They want to talk to you outside first."

"W-what onnn earth?"

Jesse dragged Steve to the door and pushed him out on the step.  As he shivered in the cold, his eyes took a moment to adjust to the dimmer light, and then he saw Cheryl, Rachel, Sara, and MinJe looking at him expectantly.  Rachel lifted up an instrument case.

"G-guyyyss, I ap-ap-apree . . .Th-thannk you forr tryyying, but . . ."

Without a word, Rachel opened the case.

Steve gasped, and stood gaping for a long moment, then, plain and clear, he said, "Oh, m-my God, y-you found it."

Tears slipped down his face as he gently touched the beautiful reddish wood on the front of the instrument and smiled. 

Turning to his partner, he asked, "Cheryl, h-how?  W-where?"

She grinned.  "An almost honest pawn broker.  When Bry and Reggie hocked it, he gave them three hundred dollars for it.  They were happy to get it, and he knew they had no idea what it was worth, so he figured it wasn't theirs.  He thought about selling it at a profit for a while, but then he found the pictures and Ms. Wood's card in the lid.  He contacted her, and she contacted us.

"Bry and Reggie took the money from Bob's and went to Las Vegas.  While they were there, they got into some serious trouble.  They're facing twenty-five to life, and Nevada will never extradite them to face our charges.  Las Vegas PD promises me their case will stick.  As long as you decide not to press charges, the DA says you can have the violin now."

"Now?  Y-yes.  Oh, God, yes.  G-go innside, all of you.  Tell Dad I'll b-be there in a minnnute."

When Jesse came back into the room followed by Cheryl, Sara, MinJe, and a familiar-looking woman introduced to him as Rachel Wood, Mark got so caught up in the greetings and taking coats that he failed to notice Steve had not returned until they had all found seats in the living room.

While his friends went inside to join the party, Steve headed downstairs to check over the violin.  Amazingly, it was undamaged.  He tightened the bow, tuned the strings, and got ready for his first public performance.

"Where's Steve," Mark asked a few moments after everyone had settled.

"He said he'd be in soon," Jesse said.

Suddenly worried for his son who had seemed so glum for so long, Mark decided to go look for him.  Because the living room was so crowded, he decided to go out through the deck doors and come into Steve's apartment from the beach entrance.  That way, if Steve was out on the beach, he would see him.

"Mark," Jesse came after him and put a gentle hand on his shoulder, "he'll be here in a minute."

"I need to see him now," Mark insisted.  "Jesse, what if something's wrong?  He's been so . . . "

Then he heard it, a sound so sweet and pure it made his heart weep, a sound he hadn't heard in over forty years.  Mark shuffled to the living room and stopped.

"Jesse, do you hear that?" he whispered.

"Yes.  It's 'Silent Night,' isn't it?"

Mark nodded.  "Catherine played it for Steve on his first Christmas.  Who?  Where?  Where's it coming from?"

Steve stepped into the living room then, and continued to play over the Ooh's and Ahh's of surprise.  

Mark watched as Steve played the violin.  He played it just like his mother had, held it like her, for she had been left handed, too, and had to pull her chair slightly ahead to avoid poking the person beside her when she played with the Phil.  Steve stood just as his mother had, head slightly down, eyes closed, a look of rapturous contentment on his face.  

The sweet simple melody floated through the room settling gently on everyone present, seeping into them, filling them with joy and peace, conjuring images of a young mother, her husband, and their holy, perfect infant, a small family, all safe together in God's keeping.  

Steve played the song twice for good measure, then he stopped.  He stood there for a moment, his bow poised above the strings as if still hearing the music in his head, smiling joyfully, his face shining with pleasure.  Finally, he opened his eyes, and looked across the room to his dad.

In that moment, no one else existed for father and son.  It was just the two of them, sharing a precious, secret memory.  

Then Steve said, "Merry Christmas, Dad.  I love you."

The words came out smoothly, effortlessly, and Mark knew his son was whole again.

THE END


	14. Author's note

**A note from the author.**

First, **thank you **to all of the people who took the time to give me the lovely reviews. ** Annie**, I hope you think this was worth interrupting Full Circle.  **Ladies**, you know who you are, **thanks** for beta reading; and **Gayle, thanks again** for the incentive to write this story.

WARNING:  THIS IS PERSONAL AND TECHNICAL INFORMATION AND NOT PART OF THE STORY.  IF YOU ARE NOT INTERESTED IN THIS STUFF, JUST IGNORE IT; PLEASE DON'T READ IT AND TELL ME IT'S BORING.  I HAVE PUT IT HERE FOR PEOPLE WHO ARE CURIOUS AND WANT MORE INFORMATION ON STEVE'S MEDICAL CONDITION IN THIS STORY.  **YOU MAY WISH TO SKIP DOWN AND TRY THE EXPERIMENT, THOUGH.  I THOUGHT IT WAS KIND OF NEAT.**

As I was writing, I found myself thinking a lot of my Uncle Herb.  He was a college-educated farmer and sometimes carpenter, well known and well liked.  He was active in the church and the community, and liked to fish and hunt.  I remember going with my three cousins to his farm and seeing all the animals when I was a child.  It was always a special outing.  Every summer for several years, our large family would hold a reunion at his farm.  We would eat far too much of the good home cooking, old recipes that had been handed down for generations, and then we would play too hard, horseshoes for the old men, volleyball or softball for the younger generations, and a peanut hunt for the children.  Though I never felt particularly close to Uncle Herb (He was a great uncle who had married in on my maternal grandmother's side of the family, and must not have known what he was getting into, poor man!), almost all of my memories of him are pleasant ones.

Then one day, he had a stroke.  The resulting brain damage caused him to develop paralysis on one side, and gave him a permanent language disability which I now believe was aphasia.  I remember him talking, and he produced lots of sounds, but very few words.  All we could do was smile and hold his hand while he struggled to communicate with us, sometimes with tears in his eyes, sometimes, flying into a rage of frustration.  Many of our family members avoided him after his stroke, and some of the little children who live far away and didn't see him often enough to know what a gentle man he was, were afraid of him.

I was still a kid when Uncle Herb died, maybe in my early twenties, and it shames me to admit I was one of the people who avoided him.  It wasn't that I didn't care.  Quite the opposite, I cared very much.  I just didn't know what to do or how to communicate with him, and I didn't want to upset him.  I didn't want to do anything wrong, so I just didn't do anything.  At family gatherings, I would smile and say hello, and then go do something else.  I knew so little about his condition I didn't even know where to begin to educate myself at that time.

I knew what kind of problems I wanted Steve to face, and I began my search with 'language production brain damage'.  After wading through several websites, I finally stumbled across the term 'aphasia', and thought, "Oooh, something that has a name!"  So, I went back to my search engine and plugged it in and got over 100,000 hits.  Where was all this stuff when my family needed it?

As I wrote this story, I tried very hard to stay true to the facts I had discovered, but sometimes, when I needed information I just couldn't find it.  I could find no specific information on assessment tests and diagnosis of aphasia patients, so all of the tests Marcus did in chapter nine were of my own invention or dredged up from the dark recesses of my mind where they were stored when I completed my educational psychology courses some ten years ago.  All omissions and errors of fact are my own, and I will gladly correct them if anyone wants to send me an Internet address where I can validate the correct information. 

What follows is a summary of what I have learned about this terrible disorder.  Much of what I read was far too technical to be useful--summaries of research and dissertations and such, but I did find a number of articles on the web that provided practical, useful, understandable information.  At the end of the summary is a list of links that I have found particularly informative.  I wish my family could have had this information years ago, so that we could have made Uncle Herb a little more comfortable among us.

**Aphasia** can affect productive and receptive language skills.  There are several kinds of aphasia and related disorders, and for some reason, the doctors who work with aphasia patients want to give each condition three or four names.  In the next few paragraphs, I have tried to explain the names of and describe the primary types of aphasia in terms of their symptoms.

**If you are already bored, you may wish to skip to the EXPERIMENT.**

**Productive language skills **involve using oral, written, body, and sign language to communicate ideas.  **All language is a system of symbols** that represent things that exist or happen in the real world.  When the mechanism that changes thoughts about these things into language about these things fails some or all means of expression break down.  This is called **Broca's** (for the area of the brain), **motor** (because it involves the motor skills necessary to produce speech sounds), **expressive** (because they can't express themselves), **anterior** (because the damaged portion of the brain is near the front), or** non-fluent** (because they can't speak fluently) aphasia.  Patients with Broca's Aphasia often experience right side paralysis because the area affecting language production is very close to the area controlling motor skills.  Those who have recovered often report understanding everything that is said to them and knowing exactly what they wanted to say, but being unable to make their speech parts function to say the words.  

**Receptive language skills** involve decoding the oral, written, body, and sign language messages communicated by others to understand their thoughts.  When the mechanism that turns language (symbols) into thoughts about things in the real world breaks down, people can 'speak' fluently but understand nothing.  Often their body language and emotional responses can be just as muddled.  This is **Wernicke's** (for the area of the brain), **sensory** (because it involves sensing and responding to communication from others), **receptive** (because they can't receive information through language), **posterior** (because the damaged portion of the brain is near the back), or **fluent** (because they can 'speak' fluently) aphasia.  Those who have recovered often report that they never realized they weren't speaking properly, that other people made no sense to them, and that they knew when they were talking and couldn't make themselves stop.

Further down, there is an **experiment** you can try to see what I mean about language being a set of symbols.

**Global aphasia** affects both areas of the brain, and people have symptoms of both disorders.  Not only can they not comprehend (receptive) language, but they cannot produce (expressive) language sounds either.  It can also be classified as non-fluent aphasia.

The following symptoms/disorders/conditions often occur with aphasia, but they are not necessarily a part of aphasia.  They are separate disorders/conditions in and of themselves.  **Anomia** is when a patient has trouble finding names for people and things.  **Apraxia** is trouble sequencing physical actions to make the speech sounds necessary to form words.  It can be misdiagnosed as Broca's aphasia where the main problem lies in knowing which sounds to make, not in making the body form them, which is why Steve needed people to say words for him.**  Dysarthria** is a name shared by a group of conditions caused by weakness, slowness, or lack of coordination in the parts of the body needed to produce speech sounds.  With apraxia, the patient's mistakes in speaking in a given situation can be different every time, with dysarthria, the patient makes the same mistakes every time.  Patients with Broca's aphasia can also experience **paralysis, and lack of sensation, **usually on the right side of the body because the areas of the brain controlling speech are close to the areas of the brain controlling motor function.  Usually, these symptoms are more pronounced on the hand and arm than in the leg, because the hand and arm involve fine motor movements, which is why playing the violin again was supposed to be helpful.  They can also experience a condition called **r**ight hemianopsia in which the right side of each eye is blind.  **Again, I freely admit, this is a point where my understanding of my own research is a little shaky.**

Left-handed people are more prone to acquiring aphasia than right-handed people, because for some reason, they have more areas of their brain that control speech.  For the same reason, though, they are more likely to recover more completely than right-handed people because the 'extra' speech centers can take over the lost functions.

People can have some symptoms of either (or both) Broca's and Wernicke's aphasia, and not others.  That is the case with Steve in this story.  I decided he would have a **complex aphasia syndrome**, so he could talk nonsense fluently and not realize it until someone told him, but he would be capable of understanding others.  I picked the symptoms that would make it hardest on Steve and still make it possible for me to write my story because it was in response to a hurt/comfort challenge.  I left him with body language so he wouldn't have to sit like a lump, and comprehension so Marcus could actually help him and so Mark could comfort him.  Once he started to recover, the damage to Broca's area healed slower than the damage to Wernicke's area, which is why he was eventually able to speak, albeit slowly, and why he still babbled gibberish when he was upset.  **I tried very hard to keep this story true to life, but all errors in this aspect of the story can be chalked up to an incomplete understanding of the facts and a certain amount of artistic license.**

**Music therapy** has been shown to help people with Broca's aphasia.  They can remember words when learned in song better than when learned through other methods.  I came across an audio sample of a man with Broca's aphasia talking.  When he had to speak freely, he struggled incredibly.  When he was asked for certain numbers, he would count up to them (a sequence is sort of a song without music) and then say the number.  He had to start at one every time.  Would you believe I wrote Steve's idea web (remember he started with A every time at first) scene before I found that?

Aphasia affects **speakers of different languages** in different ways.  As a language teacher, I think this is because the internalized rules of the language are different, but I have no research to back that assumption.  Some research is currently being undertaken to determine which symptoms of aphasia are universal and which are language specific.

**EXPERIMENT:**

Now, here's the **experiment** to demonstrate what I meant about language being a set of symbols.

1.  Tell me the subject, verb, and direct object of the sentence below.  (In case you're not familiar with the grammar terms, a subject is who or what does something in a sentence, a verb names the action that the subject performs, and the direct object tells who or what they do it to.)

2.  Also, how many subjects perform the action and how many direct objects have it done to them.  Is the subject (a) person(s) or thing(s)?  Is the direct object (a) person(s) or thing(s)?

3.  Is the action something good or bad?  Why?  When does it happen?

Assume it is an English sentence.  Answers and examples appear after the links.

**Kerfludam befudgeled the musterbuns.**

**Links **(You will have to copy and paste them into the browser)****

**http://www.healthlinkusa.com/content/22.html**

            **By far the most useful site I have found.  **Has a list of links, including a very practical list of Do's and Don'ts.  Some of the links are dead ends, but most of them are good and full of useful, easy-to-understand information.

**http://www.nhsdirect.org.uk/nhsdoheso/display.asp?sTopic=Aphasia&sSection=Introduction**

            Discusses diagnosis, symptoms, causes, treatment, and prevention

**http://www.nidcd.nih.gov/health/voice/adultaphasia.asp#1**

            Provides a very brief overview of the disorder, and discusses current research

**http://www.aphasiahope.org/**

            Lots of information, tips on communicating with patients, stories of personal experiences, even a video.  The following links are from pages of the Aphasia Hope Foundation site.

            **Tips for family, friends, and patients.           **

**            http://www.aphasiahope.org/tip.jsp?id=3**

**http://www.aphasiahope.org/tip.jsp?id=4**

**http://www.aphasiahope.org/tip.jsp?id=1**

**Personal experiences of aphasia patients.  **Several of them are particularly touching.

**http://www.aphasiahope.org/experiences.jsp**

**http://www.imssf.org/aphasia.shtml**

            Provides another overview of various types of aphasia, but gets somewhat technical.

**http://www.csuchico.edu/~pmccaff/syllabi/SPPA336/336unit5.html**

            More characteristics (symptoms) of aphasia

Here are the **ANSWERS** to the **EXPERIMENT** questions.

**Kerfludam befudgeled the musterbuns.**

**Kerfludam:** Is the subject.  You may have recognized it because it is at the beginning of the sentence.  There is only one because there is no s to indicate the plural.  You might guess that Kerfludam is a person because there is no a/an/the/my etc, but it could be any proper noun.

**Befudgeled:**  Is the verb.  You might have guessed that because of the -ed past tense indicator.  As far as if it is good or bad, that is up to you.  A lot depends on how you 'hear' it and what words you connect it with.  When I heard it in a college course, I thought it was bad because it sounded like "befuddled."  You can tell it happened in the past because of the -ed ending.

**Musterbuns: **Is the direct object.  Again, you probably recognized it by its position in the sentence.  The s makes it plural.  Musterbuns could be people or things, but it's not the name of a family, national, or ethnic group (like the Smiths, the Japanese, or the Europeans) because it is lowercase.

If you are an English (British or American) speaker, you probably guessed all of the parts of the sentence correctly because the human brain is 'hardwired' for language.  We automatically search out patterns and meaning, so we recognize the first part o a sentence as a subject, the -ed as the ending of a verb, the noun after a verb as a direct object, and the -s on the end of a noun as a plural form.  Steve was able to interpret language, but until he started speaking properly again, he could well have been saying things like "Kerfludam befudgeled the musterbuns."  I just didn't show it b/c it was so much easier to show his intent in italics.  

**Check out this website for more fun with language symbols:**

**http://www.jabberwocky.com/carroll/jabber/jabberwocky.html**

If you chose to read this through, I hope I haven't bored you with all the terminology.  I just found it all fascinating and wanted to share.  I actually enjoyed putting all of this information together, and I hope if someone out there has found any of this helpful, or has found more useful information for me to add, you will contact me.  You can find my e-mail address by clicking on my penname.

Again, thank you for reading this story, and if you made it through this final installment, thank you twice.  Because of my experience with my Uncle Herb, this story had a special meaning for me, and I really wanted to share what I have learned.

MERRY CHRISTMAS, HAPPY NEW YEAR, AND **GOD BLESS YOU AND YOURS!**


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